The Verdict of Experience
by Celestially
Summary: Leonardo is more than happy to let a wounded Ezio stay in his bottega until Carnevale. A small sacrifice for the man you secretly love. LeonardoxEzio
1. Chapter 1

The idea for this fic came not long after I played the first mission of sequence 9 (Knowledge is Power) in AC2. At first I thought that it was supposed to directly follow the Flying Machine assassination sequence, which to me made no sense because that's historically inaccurate _and_ far too convenient. "Lolol it just so happens to be Carnevale all of a sudden, HAVE A MASK YOU'LL BE SAFE!" It turns out that there's technically a chunk of time between the two, which only made me want to envision it. Only, you know, with my OTP in mind.

The title is drawn from a line in Leonardo's notebooks, on the subject of why painting is superior to all other art: "Take the poet who describes the beauty of a lady to her lover and a painter who represents her and you will see to which nature drives the enamored critic. Certainly the proof should be allowed to rest on the verdict of experience."

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><p><strong>The Verdict of Experience<strong>

I.

Church bells interrupted the gentle Venetian night. Leonardo _knew_ that particular kind of ringing: harsh and frantic, a series of desperate overlapping melodies, telling a different story than the joyful ones that greeted parishioners as they left mass. Perhaps it was unfortunate that he had stopped seeing these bells for what they were—a warning that announced death, and that the murderer was still on the loose—and instead saw them as a sign that his allies' plans were in motion.

He felt slightly pleased despite himself. He was never one to be delighted by the idea of death, even with one who deserved it; in fact, he usually felt quite the opposite. Still, as he was closely associated with one whose trade was in death, he equated the sounds of battle with business, and the deadly tone of the church bells with success. Strange, that a world so unfamiliar to his practice was still so familiar to him, particularly now that he was playing a more active role in it.

Stranger still was the company he was keeping as a result of his friendship with an assassin. Antonio had proven to be an excellent conversationalist, and Leonardo was forced to admit to himself that he had underestimated the thief's intelligence. He certainly was more convivial than many of the great thinkers to whom he had been acquainted in Florence. Perhaps it was because despite their natural intellectual curiosity, neither the thief nor the artist was formally educated in Latin, and so they finally found in each other a suitable partner for discourse.

They had engaged in a pleasant conversation on Plato as they walked to the thieves' palazzo. Leonardo had been almost embarrassed to admit that he had difficulty subscribing to the new school of Platonism as many of his contemporaries in Florence had, subscribing to certain tenets without agreeing with them all. Antonio favored a more practical philosophy, but still listened in awe as Leonardo recounted a brief meeting with Marsilio Ficino, though the memory was not as fond as it was interesting.

He was so engrossed in conversation that he had barely noticed when they arrived at the palazzo and sat in Antonio's study. In fact, he was so distracted that it wasn't until the church bells began to ring that Leonardo even remembered why he was there in the first place. All of the feelings that Antonio's company had suppressed bubbled back to the forefront, and he wrung his hands, anxious for news. This wasn't Ezio's first assassination, of course, and Leonardo wondered if his worries were insulting in light of that fact. But could he help it? This was the first time the artist had ever been _directly_ involved in planning the assassination of one of his friend's major targets. Rather than allowing sometimes too sparing visits to reassure him, which was how he usually learned that his friend was still breathing, Leonardo wouldn't be satisfied until Ezio stood in this very room, tired but victorious.

At least the sound of bells informed him that his invention had successfully played its part, though he was admittedly quite curious to hear about the particulars. Now it was just a matter of Ezio's safe return.

"Leonardo?"

The artist realized, with some embarrassment, that he had stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, abandoning his conversation with Antonio in favor of his restless thoughts. He refocused his gaze, once again seeing the thief sitting across from him instead of imagined blood and fire. "_Mi dispiace_," Leonardo said, smiling kindly in the hopes that Antonio hadn't read too much into the sudden silence. "What was I saying?"

"You were discussing Plotinus' hypostases," Antonio supplied, his smile revealing absolutely nothing. "Specifically, your opinion of them."

"Ah, _sì_." It would prove to be an adequate distraction from church bells. "Plotinus believed that our physical world was created by the World-Soul, or the amalgamation of our eternal souls, attempting to emanate the realm of the _nous_, or the Intelligible. That, itself, is a double of the perfection that exists with the One, or God."

"And yet despite being merely a reflection of the first, the _nous_ is still a perfect world, wherein divine ideas take shape, exemplifying the ideal forms of all objects and living things," Antonio contributed.

"Exactly." Leonardo smiled. "The soul is pure and good, and the world we make a mirror of the perfection we get from the divine ideas of the _nous_, but unlike the _nous_ it is flawed. The individual's soul may lose themselves in the finite pleasures of this world, but that does not make them evil—only imperfect. It is through thought that we can regain our path to the world of divine ideas and reestablish our connection with God."

"And do you agree?" the thief asked, leaning back in his chair and frowning. "I must admit, I feel it's rather ... idealistic. You cannot tell me that corrupt men like the Barbarigo are simply _misguided_."

"I consider myself something of an optimist," Leonardo admitted, "and I would love to be able to see the best in all people ... but no, I can't say I believe in all of that."

"Good," Antonio said, grinning. "I rather like you, _maestro_ Leonardo. It would have been a shame if you believed that all men, even the most cruel and vile, can find their path to God simply by _thinking_ about it."

"Then what of salvation?" Leonardo asked, curious—he had been right in assuming that Antonio was not a particularly religious man. "Is that not what the Church tells us?"

"I do not know if I can truly believe in a Church who would allow corrupt men to rise to power, the virtuous and noble crushed by poverty, and two intelligent men to be disgraced simply because they do not speak the language of intellectuals," Antonio explained, and Leonardo didn't feel inclined to press because he agreed with that statement.

"I value thought and intelligence," Leonardo continued, changing the subject, "but at a certain point we must stop asking questions and start attempting to answer them. Experience is what governs us, not theory. There are things to be discovered in our world, _practical_ matters that thinkers and philosophers refuse to acknowledge because it does not fit in with their worldview." He shook his head. "It is not obsession with the finite to observe the movement and behavior of animals, to explore the innards of the human body, or to attempt impossible feats such as ... well, flight."

"Which you have now achieved," Antonio noted with admiration.

"Which _Ezio_ has now achieved." That caused the artist to pause, for the swirl of thoughts to come rushing back to him. His breath hitched in anticipation.

"Continue, Leonardo," Antonio urged. Leonardo realized that Antonio was attempting to distract him before Ezio's arrival, and smiled in approval.

"Some would consider art to be an entirely intellectual experience," Leonardo continued, forcing Ezio from his mind, "as if to create is to imagine perfection and then recreate it. To portray divine perfection on the canvas..." He hesitated. "Perhaps? I know that I struggle to find the face of Christ when I paint. I do not want to imagine it, and yet I can think of no earthly model to portray Him."

Antonio nodded. "I can imagine the difficulty."

"But why think about what a tree looks like when I could go outside and paint a tree?" Leonardo gestured outside, at the tree that stood strong in the darkness outside of the palazzo, his heart and mind racing with vexation. "To paint is to perfectly reflect life on the canvas, and as such, a mirror is the perfect painting for its ability to recreate exactly what it sees. So must we emulate the mirror, as artists and as thinkers. We are not divinely perfect, and our bodies may fail with age, but they are what house our immortal souls, and is that not something marvelous to consider? And what of numbers, of ratios? Must perfection be divine to be perfect, or can this world not provide things of perfection, or at least of beauty?" He tapped his breast, every inch of his body tingling with fervor. "I _see_ the beauty that this world has to provide, its human and natural perfection. I wish to recreate what is perfect with my art and improve on what could be better with my science. So are my thoughts and motivations too finite for those learned men in Florence? Are they so offended by my lack of literary skill? I—"

"They live in a world of _thought_, Leonardo, and may they _remain_ there," Antonio urged, grasping the artist's arm in an attempt to calm him.

Leonardo felt the rare burst of anger draining from him, and while he was pleased to have admitted what he had previously only written in his notebooks, he felt embarrassed for having shown his anger in front of his new friend. "Thank you," he said, uncertain but grateful.

Antonio nodded in acknowledgement and withdrew his arm, returning to his casual slouch in his seat. "They don't realize what great minds they are lacking in their little social circle." Leonardo chuckled at that and, smiling, the thief continued: "We will continue to live in the world we've been given, and seek to enjoy and explore and improve on it while we are here. In our own way, we are merely doing God's work." He paused, and then laughed. "I have a friend that you would love! Her name is Sister Teodora."

"A Sister of the Church?" Leonardo asked, perplexed by both the title and Antonio's reaction. "How would this discussion please her?"

"Well, she's also a courtesan."

Leonardo would have loved to inquire further, but he was interrupted by the sound of woman yelling: "Antonio!" A frenzied cry was the only warning they had before the young woman barged into the room, her eyes wide and fearful. From her ragged attire and the way Antonio stood to greet her, Leonardo guessed that this was the Rosa of whom Ezio spoke a bit too fondly. Unsure of what to make of her expression and Antonio's reaction, he resigned himself to staying quietly seated and let the thieves deal with their own business.

"Rosa, _stai bene_? What happened?" Antonio asked, all talk of philosophy forgotten.

"The Doge," Rosa gasped, her hands propped against her thighs as she tried to catch her breath. "He's dead."

"_Oddio_!" Leonardo exclaimed, practically leaping from his seat to join them. "But _how_? What happened?"

Rosa shot him a look of appraisal, slight disbelief evident in the way she leaned back and raised an eyebrow. "Antonio," she asked the other man, "who is this _femminuccia_?"

Leonardo sputtered indelicately.

"This, Rosa," Antonio started, shooting her a stern look, "is the great _maestro_ Leonardo da Vinci. Not only is he an artist and thinker of great renown, but he is also one of Ezio's _closest friends_." The last part seemed like a warning, and perhaps it was—to some people, at least. Leonardo felt that there was a difference between killing a guard who was beating him up and killing a friend who insulted him.

A look of recognition crossed Rosa's face. "Ah, _sì_. The artist. _Bene_. He's mentioned you before." The look of recognition turned into a smile that was as genuine as it was mischievous. He assumed that, for her, this was simply her normal smile, and didn't think anything of it. "Any friend of Ezio's is a friend of mine."

"_Grazie_,_ signorina_." Leonardo nodded politely, albeit a bit brusquely. It was a bit unlike him to be even remotely unkind, but he could get used to her odd behavior later. There were more pressing matters. "But what of Ezio? Why isn't he here?"

Rosa frowned one more and rubbed her face in frustration. "I don't know. But they're saying he killed the Doge."

* * *

><p>Leonardo made a surprisingly unsteady stroke of his brush on the canvas before him. Beneath the bristles, <em>la Vergine<em> smiled patiently, the hand that would eventually guide the young John the Baptist towards her son still rough and unshaded. While he had made a lot of progress lately, the painting remained mournfully incomplete, though this was perhaps not unsurprising given Leonardo's tendency to procrastinate. The Milanese Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception hadn't been pleased when he left Milan the year before without finishing their commission, but he had never planned on staying in the first place—not while his loyalties anchored him in Venice. They would get their painting, but they would have to wait.

It was almost half a year since Ezio had disappeared, and yet Leonardo's heart still stopped every time a guard shouted or a board in his home creaked. He was torn between assuming that he should give up hope due to how long it had been, and that he _shouldn't_ give up hope as Ezio had been safely away for longer periods of time. After all, he had disappeared to Monteriggioni for two years after killing Uberto Alberti, and there was just as much of a bounty on his head _then_ as there was _now._ Arguably, it had been more dangerous then, since Ezio had revealed his name during the assassination of Alberti, and yet he had survived those ordeals and returned two years later with a friendly smile and more Codex pages.

Still, that first gap of time aside, Leonardo had always gotten some clue as to his friend's continued survival: word on the street that _l'assassino_ continued to terrorize the countryside; a visit bearing a Codex page, or sometimes a visit for a visit's sake; a rare letter, if Ezio was held up in Monteriggioni and was bored enough to write... This time, there was no word, no rumors, no letter. Not even Antonio and the Thieves' Guild had heard any news, and if Ezio had any other connections then the artist was unaware of them. Even Sister Teodora, who had somehow never met Ezio but obviously heard of his reputation, had her girls keep a look out—which seemed useful given Ezio's penchant for hiring prostitutes either for pleasure or to conceal himself, but had proven fruitless.

All they knew was that the assassin had supposedly killed the Doge, and that the new Doge, Marco Barbarigo, had declared Ezio to be an enemy of Venice. Barbarigo still had his men on the lookout for the assassin while he hid in the Palazzo Ducale, a clear sign that Venice's guards hadn't stopped Ezio, even months later. If they had, his body would have been paraded around on the streets like propaganda, the people celebrating the death of the man who terrorized them all—_saved_ them all, secretly, but a few knew that truth.

Or perhaps Ezio had escaped Venice, but met trouble elsewhere. It was hard to say.

Leonardo had never truly worried about his friend's long absences save for the first long disappearance, if even then. He had barely known Ezio at the time, feeling more pity for the boy's circumstances than friendship, though that would admittedly develop not long afterwards. As always with Ezio, it was simpler to just assume the best until he heard the worst rather than agonizing over the assassin's safety.

For the thousandth time, Leonardo marveled at how anxious this last mission had made him, and how it had persisted for months after the mission was over. Of course it would be the one time that he was anxious to immediately hear from Ezio that he would vanish from his life completely.

The room slowly filled with light, and Leonardo smiled, momentarily forgetting that particular dilemma. The afternoon was his favorite time of day to sketch from nature, because the sun lined up with his window, bathing the workshop in sunlight. Of course, he drew the curtain on the window during those hours—the muted light was much more flattering to a subject than direct sunlight—but the change was always inspiring. He always ended up straying from whatever commission laid waiting on his easel, instead preferring to sketch anything he happened to notice that day: a bird on the windowsill, or the books he left on his desk the night before, or even his assistant Ettore, should the boy have fallen asleep in the portrait seat. Sunlight, even muted, had a way of drawing attention to the wonderful things that he had never noticed before, and Leonardo, always on a quest to find beauty in the world, would have been a fool to ignore it.

Though she was glancing down, _la Vergine_ smiled on the canvas before him, patient while still urging him to continue his work. Leonardo sighed, tempted by the unknown potential that could be revealed by the sun's rays, but he knew that he should continue working on the commission before he lost his motivation, which he knew was bound to happen soon.

He wasn't sure exactly how long he worked—long enough for the sunlight to completely fill the room and then begin to retreat—before he heard a knocking at the door, followed by Ettore shuffling out from where he was organizing things in the back room to greet the guest. The boy was very good at sensing when his _maestro_ needed to focus on whatever he was working on, and in those times made sure that the artist would only be disturbed for matters of great importance. Leonardo was certainly lucky to have him, though in this case he couldn't decide whether he was more desperate to continue working or desperate for an excuse to stop, frustrated as he was about the young John's face. Even as an earthly figure, he required an air of divinity befitting the child who would foresee the coming of Christ as well as perform His baptism. Perhaps he would ask Ettore to sit for him—at twelve he still had _some_ of his baby fat, and it wouldn't be difficult for Leonardo to shift his facial structure to look like—

"_Maestro_! Quickly!" Ettore exclaimed, his voice a color that Leonardo had never heard from the boy. It was fear, he realized, and the older man quickly turned to see who would dare threaten or terrorize his innocent apprentice.

"What is—_Ezio_!" Leonardo leapt from his seat, nearly sending his stool toppling into the easel but catching it at the last minute. He felt his mind process a myriad of emotions: surprise, elation, the urge to strike Ezio for disappearing without warning his friends, the familiar chirp of something that had once caused him too much trouble and preferred not to dwell on, before finally settling on fear as he noticed the red stain blossoming on Ezio's front. That must have been what had terrified Ettore, as he was at least familiar with Ezio's face and had never been afraid of the terrifying _assassino_.

"Leonardo," Ezio said, his voice strained but still friendly, the smile peeking out beneath the hood too, too familiar. "You look well."

"You're injured," Leonardo stated dumbly, a little too stunned to do anything but state the obvious. He frowned as Ezio chuckled.

"I am not so welcome in this city as I would have imagined," he responded, almost cheekily. Leave it to the assassin to be flippant about his injuries, though Leonardo supposed that when one is injured as much as Ezio, one must find some humor in it. Ezio opened his arms for a hug, a wince briefly crossing his features at the action.

Leonardo, to Ezio's apparent surprise, rushed forward but didn't meet the assassin's hug. Instead, he began liberating the injured man of his bloodstained clothing, quickly instructing Ettore to retrieve medical supplies and _plenty_ of scraps of cloth.

Ezio chuckled warmly as the boy scampered into the other room, and began helping Leonardo to remove his armor. "He seems a lot older than when I last saw him," he commented. "He reminds me a little of Petruccio."

Leonardo looked up from where he unbuckled the chest plate to meet Ezio's eyes, only to find that the assassin was staring at the door through which Ettore had just left. "_Mi dispiace_," Leonardo said, as if he had done something terrible by taking him on as an apprentice.

Ezio shook his head. "_Non ci pensa_. Every boy that age reminds me of Petruccio. There is no need to apologize."

Ettore returned with what he had been sent to retrieve just as they removed Ezio's bloodstained shirt, adding it to the rest of the bloodied armor piled unceremoniously on the floor. Ettore reached down to gather the bloodstained clothing, but was interrupted by Leonardo, who had just finished helping Ezio into a chair: "No, Ettore, I will deal with that myself. I need you to go fetch Antonio."

"Where would I find him, _maestro_?" Ettore asked, already making his way towards the door.

"An excellent question," Leonardo responded, frowning in thought. Pressing a cloth to Ezio's wound to slow the bleeding—it was still too vague to identify when surrounded by all that blood—he said: "He'll either be at the Palazzo or la Rosa della Virtù."

"La Rosa della Virtù?" Ezio echoed, raising an eyebrow. He probably instantly recognized the name as one of a brothel and was confused by the use of "Virtù." Leonardo didn't blame him: he had been rather perplexed as well during his first meeting with Teodora.

"I would try there first, actually," Leonardo decided. "If he isn't there, you'll at least be able to tell Sister Teodora to come here before checking the Palazzo."

"_Capito_, _maestro_," Ettore said dutifully, not waiting for Leonardo to add any more praise before dashing out the door, probably sprinting towards the Dorsoduro district.

Having watched his assistant leave, Leonardo turned back to his friend, who was observing him with bemusement. "Do I need to ask about the company you've been keeping lately?" he asked.

Leonardo shook his head, laughing lightly. "You would not believe me if I told you. You'll see for yourself shortly."

He peeled the now red cloth from Ezio's stomach to observe the wound. It was fortunately a fairly shallow slice, arcing below his ribs, just below where the chest plate would have ended. Still, it was just deep enough to require stitches and long enough to have produced that much blood. Leonardo, as amateur of a surgeon as he was, could manage dressing it without having to ask for a doctor's help. "You'll live," he announced, briefly glancing up at his friend.

"Ah, _bene_. I was beginning to worry about that," Ezio responded, a wry smile in his voice.

"But it's in a place where the wound could easily reopen, particularly with your lifestyle," Leonardo continued, running his hands over Ezio's stomach with a clinical touch. It wasn't the first time he'd had to patch his friend up, he noted, and briefly traced another brilliant white scar that went from under Ezio's navel to his left hip, as if to remind them both of that moment. "Remember what happened when you _didn't_ listen to me?" he added wryly.

"Too well," Ezio said, his eyes squeezed shut in pain. "Not to complain, _mio amico_, but could you please—"

"Oh, of course!" Leonardo removed his hands with a sudden flare of guilt to begin rifling through the box of medical supplies, avoiding his friend's gaze. He had merely been examining the area, but wondered if Ezio had felt uncomfortable at having a man's hands resting on his stomach in such a way. Not that he would have known that Leonardo was a... Well, no point in digging up old wounds, anyway, not when there were new ones to treat.

Removing the box of needle and sutures from the medical kit, Leonardo glanced back up at his friend. "Shall we head to the table?" he asked, gesturing towards his messy worktable.

Ezio eased himself up from the chair and, echoing the gesture, said with a fair amount of sarcasm: "Shall I bleed all over your notes?"

Leonardo winced at his own foolishness. "Wait a moment, then, while I clean. And _nome di Dio_, put the cloth back on the wound if you plan on moving!" He shook his head, walking towards his worktable. "You've been injured countless times and yet you never learn."

The assassin didn't respond, which Leonardo assumed meant that he was in a great deal of pain. He moved his belongings from the table a lot more hastily and carelessly than he would have liked, in one case shoving some books off of the table to land in a messy, page-crumpling pile. Ezio shot him a brief surprised look, but it soon turned back to a wince—it seemed as though whatever energy he had used earlier to block out the discomfort had been expended, leaving the assassin with severe pain and fatigue.

As soon as the table was clear, Leonardo helped Ezio onto the table, instructing him to continue applying pressure to the wound, and then hurried into the back room to fetch a bowl of water to clean the area and vinegar to disinfect. When he returned, Ezio was staring straight up, his breathing labored, looking paler than he had seen him in a while. It was far from the worst wound that he had received, but Leonardo felt a pang of pity at the sight. As he helped Ezio peel the bloodied cloth from the wound to clean it, he wondered exactly what had happened to the assassin during his five months from absence, and what, exactly, had prompted this.

It wasn't until Leonardo made the first suture that he opted to speak: "I thought you were dead."

Ezio cracked open his eyes, which despite being a little clouded over with pain were still remarkably sharp. "Did you really think I would be taken down so easily?"

Leonardo chuckled in embarrassment. "No, I suppose I didn't," he admitted, pushing the needle through the skin to make the second stitch. "But you left without warning and nobody knew where you were. And with the government accusing you of murdering Doge Mocenigo..." He stopped when he saw Ezio wince out of the corner of his eye, and since Leonardo was threading his needle with another suture, he knew that it was not out of pain. He looked up at his friend with wide eyes. "...is it true?"

"I tried to stop it," Ezio said, refusing to meet his friend's eyes—Leonardo wondered if there was something interesting on the ceiling to entertain him, like a spider web. "Grimaldi poisoned him before I arrived. The guards assumed that I was to blame."

The artist hummed in understanding before returning to his work. It was a long wound, after all, and would require a lot of sutures. "And that is why you left?"

"I was no longer _l'assassino_ who kills corrupt government officials, conspirators, enemies of the ruling power," Ezio said bitterly. Leonardo was fairly curious about the tone of his voice, but chose not to ask. "Not that the guards ever liked me, but at least I wasn't targeting the most powerful man in Venice. That, apparently, has made me the most _wanted_ man in Venice." He hissed as Leonardo made another suture. "That is usually a wise reason to leave."

"You made the right decision," Leonardo said, nodding, "though I wish you had attempted to communicate with us somehow. Antonio, Rosa, the other thieves—we all worried." He had certainly worried the most, but felt too embarrassed to point that out. "Where _were_ you?"

Ezio shrugged—or as much as he could, given the fact that he was currently being sewn back together. "Firenze and Monteriggioni, mainly. I spent some time in Forlì as well." He raised an eyebrow. "You could have written the villa. If I hadn't been there, Claudia would have likely responded in my place. And against my will."

"I didn't want to be the bearer of bad news in case something had happened; not while you've been away for longer periods," Leonardo explained. "There was no need to worry your family just as you had worried us." He _had_ considered writing, but had felt too uncomfortable to do so. The Auditores with whom he had been the closest were Ezio himself and _la signora_ Maria, who last he had heard was still barely eating. Claudia he had only met once in passing, and while she would have gladly read his letter, he felt as if didn't know her well enough to send her a personal note merely to ask after her brother.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Ezio decided. "I am here, though—" He winced again at Leonardo's needle. "—slightly worse for wear."

"_Sì_." Leonardo paused, just long enough to tie off another suture. "_Allora_. You were in Forlì?"

Ezio sighed, his eyes shutting and a pleasant smile crossing his features. "Caterina Sforza continues to live up to her family name," he said, "and in the most attractive possible way."

"I see." Leonardo ignored the way his stomach clenched. He admired Caterina Sforza for her strength and beauty—she had been quite the presence in the Vatican court, he had heard—but disliked the way she had fascinated his best friend, just as she had the rest of the world. Perhaps it was fitting that one of the most unique men in Italia was secretly pursuing one of the most unique women, though he couldn't say that he personally appreciated it. Yet again, he was a bit biased. "And what of her husband?" he asked, trying not to sound cross.

"That _stronzo_? She hates him," Ezio answered. "Their marriage was never particularly happy, but it has only grown worse with time." He glanced over at Leonardo in amusement. "If you're worried that I've made her unfaithful to him, don't worry, because she has not expressed much interest—surprisingly." Noting the somewhat relieved look on the artist's face, he smiled and continued: "I stopped in Forlì on an errand for Lorenzo de'Medici before I returned to Venezia, and _la Contessa_ offered her hospitality while I was in the region."

"That was very kind of her," Leonardo commented sincerely.

Ezio nodded. "She is a good woman, after one looks past her colorful personality." The two men chuckled, privately recalling their own memories or stories they'd heard of the strong-willed Caterina Sforza, before falling into an amiable silence.

Leonardo finished three more sutures and was midway through a fourth before Ezio spoke again: "Thank you."

The artist glanced up at his friend, touched by the sudden, simple gesture, but still a bit confused. "_Non è niente_, Ezio," he responded, his voice lighthearted but sincere. "You are my friend. I am more than willing to sew you back together when you need it."

"No," Ezio insisted, shaking his head. "For worrying about me. It's nice to know that someone still stands by me after all these years, doing what I do."

"Your family does," Leonardo pointed out.

"Someone who is _not_ bound to me by blood and tradition," Ezio responded.

"The thieves are also loyal to you," Leonardo continued. "They may not have known you for as long, but—"

"_Nome di Dio_, Leonardo," Ezio interrupted, exasperation clear in his voice and eyes, "can you just accept my thanks?"

Leonardo smiled. "_Prego_, then."

There was another long silence—five sutures, this time—before Ezio said: "You're quiet, _mio amico_. It's unlike you."

"I'm sewing you back together," Leonardo said, patiently. "I must concentrate." It was easier to use that answer than to acknowledge the myriad of conflicting emotions chirping in his mind, still not eased both despite and due to everything Ezio had just said. Of course his emotional turmoil would be given voice by birdsong. It seemed too appropriate for a man fascinated by flight.

Fortunately, Ezio seemed satisfied by this response, and fell silent save for the occasional hiss at his ruined skin was pulled back together.

* * *

><p>Ettore returned when Leonardo was cleaning the remaining blood from Ezio's stomach, the wound now stitched up and the assassin himself comfortably sitting in the portrait seat. The boy shot Leonardo a pointed look when he noticed that the bloodstained clothing hadn't been touched since his departure.<p>

"You expect me to clean a stain from fabric when a man is bleeding to death on my worktable?" Leonardo scolded, though he had to admire his apprentice's strong instincts towards cleaning since it was something that he often neglected. Ettore had learned some maturity in looking after his admittedly scatterbrained _maestro_.

Ettore at least had the decency to look remorseful, and muttered a quiet apology as he picked up the ruined clothing to clean it himself. Ezio looked like he was about to get up and protest and tell the boy not to bother, but Leonardo immediately pushed him back down with a firm look and a firm hand against ... firmer pectorals. Now that the immediate danger had passed and Ezio no longer skirted death, the reality of the situation—that his incredibly attractive friend was half-naked and splayed under his hands, at his mercy—seemed more obvious than before.

"Did you find Antonio?" Leonardo asked, trying to distract himself from more complicated thoughts.

"_Sì_," Ettore said, turning to face the artist and assassin from the basin where he had just deposited the stained clothing. "_La Sorella_ could not travel as quickly as us, so Antonio slowed his pace to walk with her and sent me ahead. They should arrive soon."

"_Benfatto_," Leonardo said approvingly before turning to his patient. "Stay here. I will get you wine to help dull the pain."

Ezio's eyes lit up with playfulness as he watched Leonardo rifle through wines. "I would not object to that. Bring the entire bottle."

"The entire bottle?" Leonardo asked, an eyebrow quirked up in amusement as he uncorked the bottle of red that he selected. He complied regardless, bringing the bottle and two glasses to the table. He poured one cup for himself, and when he made to pour one for Ezio, the assassin shrugged.

"The _bottle_, Leonardo," he said straightforwardly.

Leonardo handed Ezio the bottle with a playfully muttered: "_ubbriaco_," taking a polite sip from his glass as his friend took a harsh swig. "If it helps," he added.

Antonio and Teodora arrived minutes later. It had been worth it to not explain the particulars of Teodora's exact vocation, Leonardo decided upon seeing the confused look on Ezio's face. "I do not understand," the assassin commented, already somewhat affected by the wine he had been swiftly drinking, Leonardo guessed due to blood loss. "Is she a courtesan or a sister?"

Teodora smiled, somehow managing to be patient, friendly, and a little condescending at the same time. "Can I not be both?"

"We can have discuss theology later," Antonio interjected, and from the way he said it, it sounded like he planned on leaving before then—he once told Leonardo that he'd heard Teodora explain herself so many times that he had practically memorized it. "Right now, I believe our dear friend the assassin has to explain himself."

They all turned their gaze to Ezio, whose eyes widened as he stopped mid-swig of wine. Self-consciously removing the bottle from his lips, he exhaled and fixed them with a gaze that was inhibited by neither wine nor pain. "Yes, I do."

Ezio recounted the story much as he had recounted it earlier, adding that he had tried to escape to Leonardo's _bottega_ only to have been ambushed by guards and realized that leaving the city was the only option. Leonardo himself felt a pang of guilt at the idea of Ezio banging fruitlessly at his door, the guards on his heels, while he chatted and philosophized with Antonio at the Palazzo de la Seta. Ezio, as if sensing the artist's sudden shift in mood, promised that he was waylaid before he even reached the Grand Canal.

"Word eventually came to me that the new Doge was a Barbarigo," Ezio eventually concluded. "As if the stories I heard of his corruption weren't enough to bring me back here, I hated knowing that I failed to keep a Templar from the Doge's seat." He shook his head and took another sip of wine, the entire bottle having nearly been drained throughout his story and its effects finally beginning to make themselves known. "_Maledetto testa di cazzo_."

"_Ezio_," Leonardo scolded, gesturing to Ettore, who was still washing the bloodstained clothing in the corner.

"_Queste parolacce le ho già sentite_, _maestro_," Ettore called out, not even bothering to look up from what he was doing.

Leonardo sighed. "I do not want to know where you learned them, as long as you don't _repeat_ them."

"So you're here to take down the Doge, then?" Antonio asked, once again getting them back on topic. He certainly seemed agitated this evening; it made Leonardo wonder what he had been doing before Ettore found him—although on second thought, it was probably better to not imagine such things. "This will prove difficult, Ezio. He _never_ leaves the Palazzo, and has a much more rigorous guard patrolling the rooftops. I'm afraid our Flying Machine will not serve our purpose this time."

"Good," Ezio responded, shuddering. "It was an experience I am not eager to repeat."

Before Leonardo could protest such an unfair dismissal of the flight, Teodora interjected: "The Doge _will_ leave his _palazzo_ soon." A soft but mischievous smile crossed her face. "Carnevale is in two weeks, after all. Not even a man as pig-headed and paranoid as him would dare miss it."

"How do you know?" Antonio asked, genuinely surprised. "My thieves have heard nothing of this."

"Your thieves are good spies, but they do not have the same connections as my courtesans." She stood from her seat, moving about the room slightly as if to better observe the artist's workshop. "A nobleman revealed that the Doge is having a party on the last night of Carnevale. It will be a lavish event, the likes of which Venezia has never seen."

Antonio snorted. "Clearly he's excited to throw himself a party now that he can use Venezia's money to fund it and not his own."

"Perhaps," Teodora responded simply. "The reasons matter little. What is important is that he will emerge from the Palazzo Ducale, giving Ezio a short window of time to take care of him."

"Alright," Ezio said, striking the arm of his seat in determination and taking another sip of wine, which was now beginning to slur his speech. "We just need to discover how I can get into the party."

"My girls will keep their ears open, then," the madam agreed, before adding, quietly: "among other things." It was a great deal bawdier than Leonardo would have expected for her, but once again her calm demeanor, sharp intelligence, and holy cause had made him forget her actual vocation.

Leonardo cleared his throat in an attempt to shake off the embarrassment of hearing Teodora's comment. "And what of Ezio?" he asked. The man himself glanced up, almost bewildered by the mention of his name. Leonardo would have chuckled endearingly at Ezio's mild drunkenness if he didn't feel that doing so would incriminate him somehow. "It is too dangerous for him to walk the streets."

Ezio frowned petulantly. "I am perfectly capable of defending myself."

"Leonardo's right," Antonio said, ignoring Ezio's comment. "With the guards on the lookout, it is probably best for him to remain out of sight." He grinned at the assassin, who was the very image of displeased. "You are a very capable fighter, _mio amico_, but even _you_ won't be able to defend yourself when you are injured as such."

"And?" Ezio asked, glaring as Leonardo. "When will I be fit to move again, oh merciful _dottore_?"

Leonardo opted to overlook the sarcasm. "A few weeks, most likely. You will be fine for Carnevale, so long as you do not strain yourself in the meantime."

"By then, it will be safe for you to roam the city anyway," Teodora pointed out. "Everyone will be in mask and costume in celebration. We will find a good costume for you, and when you are well, you will be ready to strike."

"And meanwhile...?" Ezio looked apprehensive: it was clear that he didn't like this plan, but was too exhausted to argue the point.

"Meanwhile, you will have to stay somewhere, preferably with one of us," Antonio decided. He chuckled at the small curse Ezio uttered at the idea of being watched. "It's not only because we don't trust you. Someone just needs to keep you safe, make sure that your bandages are changed... Ah!" His eyes gleamed as inspiration struck. "You should stay with Leonardo."

"_Che cosa_?" Leonardo asked in shock, but immediately caught himself. "Not that I am not more than happy to let him stay," he added, shooting an apologetic look at Ezio, who definitely looked like he was pouting, "but with _me_? An artist and a youth are hardly the strong defenders who will keep him safe from guards." Never mind the fact that his heart was racing guiltily, his mind taunting him with impossible fantasies, his gaze briefly fixing itself on the musculature of Ezio's chest before flitting back to the floor... He _did_ have a problem with letting Ezio stay, because those three days on the boat to Venice had been torturous enough—

"I will have my thieves watch over your _bottega_," Antonio said dismissively, rendering Leonardo's single valid argument inconsequential. "What's most important is that someone is there to make sure Ezio heals properly so that he is not bleeding through his costume. That will not help us at all." He glanced between Leonardo and Ezio. "What say you both? Is that agreeable?"

Ezio pressed his lips together, considering the futility of the situation, before sighing. "I'm not eager to be confined to one place, but if I must, I would be honored to stay here, Leonardo," he said, glancing at his friend with eyes warmed by wine and a slight smile. There was such sincerity behind the assassin's words—vexation at being coddled by three of his allies aside—that the artist wouldn't have been able to resist, even if he hadn't already made up his mind.

"Of course he can stay here," Leonardo agreed, albeit nervously. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, there were birds singing.

* * *

><p>

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

_Mi dispiace_ – I'm sorry

_Peccato_ – literally: sin; used like: that's a shame

_Stai bene?_ – Are you okay?

_Oddio!_ – Oh God!

_femminuccia_ – wimp/girly man

_Grazie, signorina_ – Thank you, miss

_Non ci pensa_ – Don't think about it.

_Capito_ – Understood

_nome di Dio_ – used like: for God's sake!

_Allora_ – So

_Stronzo_ – literally: turd; used like: bastard

_Non è niente_ – It's nothing

_Prego_ – You're welcome

_Benfatto_ – Well done

_ubbriaco_ – drunkard

_Maledetto testa di cazzo_ – more or less: fucking dickhead

_Queste parolacce le ho già sentite _ – I've already heard those bad words

_Che cosa?_ – What?

Other notes:

Marsilio Ficino is a major Neo-Platonic philosopher and leader of the Platonic Academy discussion group in Florence. Given their mutual connection to Lorenzo de'Medici, it's not unlikely that he and Leonardo would have met, even though it's never been recorded historically.

Leonardo's Big Huge Philosophical Rant is based off of what I've read about Neoplatonism, Leonardo's relationship with that particular philosophical movement, and a lot of things that he says in his notebooks. If anything's wrong, well, I'm no philosopher, and this is just fanfiction. XD


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry for the delay! Between real life being crazy and the general trickiness of this chapter, it took longer for me to write than I would have liked. Hopefully the next chapter should come faster! If not, it's probably because I'm dicking around and doing research, _as usual._ Thank you to those of you who have read and reviewed so far, and I hope all of you enjoy the chapter! As I mentioned, this chapter had a few tricky sections, so I hope you think they turned out well.

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><p>

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><p><strong>The Verdict of Experience<strong>

II.

Leonardo's day began as any day in the _bottega_ would: with ambient noise from outside accompanied by Ettore's light knocks on the door. It was a tradition that the boy had started himself, since he was so used to waking up with the sun where Leonardo traditionally slept until he felt sufficiently awake. He had previously on multiple occasions slept in too late and nearly missed a meeting with a patron, something that no longer was an issue with Ettore there to wake him at the appropriate hour.

"_Entra_," Leonardo said, his voice thick with sleep. He wanted nothing more than to curl back into his pillow and hide from the day, but Ettore would most likely rip the covers away as he had recently joked he would do. Leonardo worried that the boy would actually make good on that promise; it seemed like the kind of thing that he would suggest as a joke and then actually _do_.

"_Buona mattina_, _maestro_," Ettore said, opening the door and stepping inside. He had already dressed in a plain doublet and hose, his typical informal uniform if he expected to work around the _bottega_ that day. He also held a glass of water, which he handed to Leonardo. "You don't have any appointments today," he announced as the artist drank, "but you still haven't opened that letter from Milan..."

"There is no sense in doing so," Leonardo pointed out, wiping his mouth now that he had drained the glass. "It is from the Confraternity, and I _know_ why they are contacting me. They will have to continue waiting for their painting."

Ettore sighed, taking the glass from the artist's hands. "You should be more responsible."

"But then what would you do, if you couldn't push me around and tell me where I needed to be?" Leonardo asked, smiling.

"I would learn to paint," Ettore pointed out wryly. "Come, let us start the day. You should work on _la Vergine_ again, since those churchmen in Milan are so eager to see her."

"Perhaps," Leonardo said, brushing off the statement as he got out of bed. He lifted his nightshirt over his head, placing it on the bed before retrieving the clothing that his assistant was setting out for him. "Ettore, I dreamt of something ingenious last night."

Ettore looked at him curiously. "Oh, _maestro_?" he asked, selecting a plain green doublet for the artist to wear—one usually set aside for work since it was already stained with paint. "What would that be?"

"Imagine," Leonardo started, sitting on his bed so as to slip on his hose, "a cannon that can be held in a soldier's hands, convenient and easy of transport." He slipped his other foot into the hose and stood, shimmying it up his legs. "Only rather than firing a single ball, it would fire stones."

"Stones?" Ettore asked, sliding the plain white shirt in his hands over Leonardo's now outstretched arms. "As in more than one?"

"_Sì_, making it even more dangerous," Leonardo explained, adjusting the undershirt as Ettore readied the doublet. "Can you see it? A multitude of small stones being hurled almost like hail, causing great terror, confusion, and loss to the enemy."

Ettore cast Leonardo a strange look before signaling him to lift his arms. "_Maestro_, how you come up with these things and then go outside to feed street dogs is so strange to me."

"What's wrong with science?" Leonardo asked, securing some of the ties on his doublet as Ettore took care of the belt at his waist.

"I love _la scienza_ as well!" the boy insisted. "_Anche la tecnologia_. I hardly protest your tutelage, _maestro_, but your passion for inventing machines of war and dissecting corpses is funny to me when you spend part of your wage freeing birds from cages."

"That's different," Leonardo explained. "I may not feel comfortable taking a life, but I also acknowledge that there is a constant need for innovation in warfare and a better understanding of anatomy and death. How else are we to defend ourselves against those who wish to do us harm?"

"I agree," Ettore said casually, grabbing Leonardo's boots from the near the door. "Is that why you help Ezio?"

"Yes," Leonardo almost said, but he froze as he remembered that Ezio was currently in his home, and would be for the next two weeks. He was surprised that it had even slipped his mind; perhaps the day had been ordinary enough to distract him from the event that would change his routine. He felt a rush as the memories from last night returned to him: Ezio under his hands, wincing through the sensation of his wound being sewn back together; Ezio drinking, the wine dulling his senses and making him playful despite the pain; Ezio's unsteady steps as Leonardo carried him upstairs and put him to bed. "Is he still asleep?" he finally asked.

Ettore gestured for Leonardo to sit so as to help him with his boots. "_Sì_. I heard him snoring before I came to wa—_maestro_, wait, your boots!" the boy exclaimed, waving the brown boots frantically as the artist darted from the room.

The room where Ezio slept wasn't much of a bedroom—in fact, it was more of a storeroom than anything else. Leonardo had set it aside some time ago, not long after moving to Venezia, for when Ezio needed a place to stay that wasn't _la Gilda dei Ladri_. Of course, like most rooms in Leonardo's _bottega_, it also ended up being a storeroom for unfinished works and ideas that otherwise would have cluttered the main area. Ezio apparently didn't mind: he liked being surrounded by art and knowledge, things that he felt he seldom encountered in his line of work. They made him feel at ease, he had said. Strange, because seeing those unfinished _pezzi di merda_ always made Leonardo feel anxious.

It didn't take long to reach the door to Ezio's room, through which Leonardo heard the assassin snoring, just as Ettore had mentioned. That was enough to ensure Leonardo that Ezio was well—or as well as he could be, given the large gash under his ribs. He wasn't suffering, Leonardo supposed, and that was enough to put him at ease, though his earlier nagging dread remained and probably would until the assassin left.

"Do we wake him?" Ettore asked, appearing behind Leonardo. The boy was still carrying the boots, but had now also retrieved Leonardo's ever-present red beret.

"_No_," Leonardo decided. "Sleep is probably distracting him from pain. It would be a crime to wake him now while he is resting easily."

Ettore frowned, shifting his weight. "We should at least check on him."

"It won't be necessary," Leonardo said. "If he is snoring that peacefully then he is not in pain." He forced a smile, hoping that would be enough to distract Ettore. There wasn't a good way of explaining that he simply wasn't sure he wanted to face reality just yet.

"_Va bene_," Ettore conceded, turning to head back to Leonardo's room so that they could finish dressing. "Maestro, if you don't want to work on _la Vergine_ today, could you give me a lesson?" The eagerness was obvious in his voice; how quickly the boy would drop his air of responsibility if it meant that he gained something!

Leonardo smiled sincerely this time, stepping away from Ezio's door to join his apprentice. "_Sì_, we can certainly do that," he agreed. Behind him, Ezio snored loudly; Leonardo forced the sound from his mind.

* * *

><p>After a short breakfast, Leonardo gave Ettore a lesson on geology, showing him different kinds of rocks that he had collected from the Apennine Mountains and from the shores around Forlì and Venice. He also showed Ettore his geological studies of the Arno Valley, explaining his theories of the different strata of rock and how the Arno had seemed to cut through them—not quickly and visibly, but slowly, over time. Ettore listened with wide eyes that made him seem younger than he tried to act, peppering Leonardo's lecture with questions about <em>how<em> and _why_. The boy's curiosity was insatiable, and not at all dissimilar to Leonardo's own. He had done well in finding the young _padovano_ three years prior.

When the lesson concluded, Leonardo promised to take Ettore on a trip into the countryside to show examples of rock formations, as well as different kinds of plant life. Of course, the trip would have to wait until Ezio had left, but it was a promise that the artist would keep. He was itching to leave the city anyway, and this was an opportunity that would benefit both master and pupil.

He set Ettore to work on some sketching, giving him a bit of time to do some work of his own. Leonardo was still entranced by the cannon in his dreams, and decided to forego working on this _Vergine_—it wasn't as if he hadn't painted several in his life already. He much preferred to pull out his notebook and create; he wouldn't be able to sit still if he didn't.

After sketching part of it and making a few notes, he felt his mind wander towards the man who slept upstairs and his quill stilled. Was Ezio still asleep, he wondered? How much did he bleed through the sutures, or had he perhaps torn them? What would he do when he woke up, most likely with a headache from all that wine? Should he have made the wounded man some medicine? Oh, but he probably couldn't until Ezio woke up and he knew exactly what he needed to treat. Would he resent Leonardo for being forced to stay here, as if it had been the artist's idea—and it had in part, oh that would certainly incriminate him! How—

"_Maestro_," Ettore said, interrupting Leonardo's increasingly more frantic thoughts. "How does this look?"

"Oh," Leonardo said, still in a bit of a daze as Ettore's notebook filled his vision. "The perspective is ... off. As practice, mark your focal point on the page as a reference, and draw lines as a guide."

He wanted to kick himself for how silly and nervous he was being, and all because his friend was staying over. It wasn't as if Ezio had never slept at the _bottega_ before; in fact, he did it habitually and always for a single night, disappearing in the morning. The assassin was borderline nomadic, working until he was exhausted and finding shelter where he could, typically with thieves or courtesans, but sometimes with Leonardo or simply _anywhere_. This lifestyle was in part due to the requirements of his profession, but also because Ezio felt uncomfortable owning property. Monteriggioni was at enough risk, but at least it was under his uncle's name and defended by walls and _condottieri_. The issue was that too many people knew that the fabled _assassino_'s name was Ezio Auditore. It was too easy for his enemies to track him down if he purchased property under his name, and he was too physically recognizable to attempt doing so under a fake name. And so Ezio lived everywhere and nowhere, moving from kill to kill because it was the only thing that kept him alive.

"_Maestro_," Ettore interrupted again, "you mean like this?"

He didn't even bother to look at the page this time. "Yes, yes," he said absently.

Leonardo sometimes wondered if, despite everything, Ezio didn't privately enjoy this lifestyle. It wasn't one that he would have chosen for himself, but after a decade of this nightmare, it was hard to imagine the man doing anything else. Leonardo sometimes mourned the young man who had accompanied his mother years earlier, as cocksure as one would expect from someone his age, but with a strange spark that hinted at something greater. He often found himself wondering who Ezio would be if Fate hadn't taken this course; Leonardo had instantly known that Ezio wasn't meant to work in a bank, but this matter of Assassins and Templars defied logic. It certainly wasn't what Leonardo had expected when he found Giovanni Auditore and his other two sons hanging in the Piazza della Signoria, a moment that he had impulsively, shamefully recorded in his notebook. _Red doublet with white necktie, a crimson coat with black—_

"_Maestro_, are you thinking about Ezio?" Ettore asked.

Leonardo snapped to attention and turned towards his assistant, who held his notebook against his chest and rolled his quill between the fingers of his free hand. "N-no," Leonardo started, already aware of how unconvincing he sounded. "I was merely pondering whether the increasing the size of the barrel in order to accommodate more stones would also make it too heavy to carry." It was a legitimate concern, one that he had already jotted down in his notebook, but he knew that Ettore would see right through it.

"_È mezzogiorno_," the boy pointed out, resting the feather of his quill against his knee. "He should be awake now, no? Should we check to see if he is safe?"

"Are you concerned?" Leonardo asked, deciding that shifting the focus away from him would be the safest way to proceed.

"A little," Ettore admitted lightly. "As are you, I would imagine."

Though the artist felt terribly embarrassed, he had to admit that the boy had a point: Ezio had slept for far too long, and given his injuries, this was either healing at work or a terrible sign. As his doctor, Leonardo _had_ to go visit Ezio, to perform the duty that he had been enlisted to perform. And while Leonardo felt tense and guilty for wanting to visit his friend, he knew that he wouldn't be able to avoid this forever. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt," Leonardo conceded, trying to keep his voice light. He pushed himself to stand, instinctively closing the notebook on the worktable. To his left, the stairs seemed dark and imposing. "I guess I'm just afraid of what I'll see."

Ettore cocked his head to the side. "I do not understand. Do you think there's something wrong?"

Leonardo smiled. "_Non importa_. Continue your sketching, and I will return after I have checked on our guest."

There was no great ritual to walking up the stairs, even when this walk led to a source of anxiety. The stairs were not steep or unending, though they were a bit dark; this wasn't unusual, since they were poorly lit. Leonardo found himself scoffing at his imagination and the way it had wanted to dramatize such a mundane event. There was nothing for him to fear: he was merely visiting the room where his best friend slept into order to make sure that the man was safe. There was no punishment for an act of kindness and consideration.

He couldn't hear Ezio's snores when he reached the door, and while it didn't mean that Ezio was in jeopardy, it also didn't say much about whether the assassin was awake or asleep. Leonardo wasn't sure what he wanted in this moment: he wasn't sure if he was ready to face Ezio, but if he slept it was only delaying the inevitable. Knocking was the polite thing to do regardless, and so Leonardo knocked softly, in case the man _was_ still asleep. When he received no response, he knocked a second time, this time a little more insistently; again, this was met with silence.

Ezio was asleep, then. Perhaps it was for the best: Leonardo would have time to collect himself so that he could speak to Ezio without fear. And what was it that he feared, exactly? That Ezio would catch him staring and realize what he was? To be honest, the assassin was a little clueless to such matters at times, and if he hadn't managed to figure out that Leonardo found him quite attractive in the decade they had known each other, then the secret would most likely remain safe. And Leonardo was always itching to invite the assassin over, eager to spend time with his friend. He would not squander such a rare opportunity to spend two weeks—_two weeks_!—with his best friend simply because he was ashamed of slightly lurid thoughts.

And so with a deep, steadying breath, and a silent reminder that it wasn't wrong for a doctor to check on his patient or for a man to be worried about his best friend, Leonardo opened the door.

The small room looked the same as always, though now it felt more inviting, as if Ezio's presence frightened away the negative aura produced by half-finished paintings and half-baked ideas. Or perhaps it was because a blanket had been kicked off the bed to partially obscure the half-finished "St. Jerome in the Wilderness"—for the best, the artist noted with some bitterness. The leg that had likely done most of the blanket kicking hung lazily off the mattress, the calf's musculature still impressive despite the idle position. Leonardo's gaze traced the line up Ezio's body before reaching his muscular torso, bare except for the bandages that wrapped around his middle. He moved to the assassin's face next, admiring the way his dark hair formed a halo beneath his head, an almost gentle look across his features. Indirect sunlight threw into relief the curves and textures of paint and paper and skin.

Leonardo felt himself fill with warmth at the sight. He could see how the assassin seemed to be at peace in that room, supervised by a half-finished Madonna and a stern-looking man who had asked the artist to redo his portrait. Leonardo himself never managed to relax in here, but for a brief moment he tried to absorb the tranquility in the room to let it empower him. Unsurprisingly, he failed.

Remembering his original purpose, the artist hesitated. There was no point in waking Ezio if it meant making him aware of the pain that sleep was pushing to the back of his mind. Either way, he could see from here that the bandage wrapped around Ezio's abdomen was only lightly stained with specks of reddish brown, which meant that it was likely healing properly and without any torn stitches. The only other thing worth checking for were signs of infection, which meant checking the wound of signs of pus—there seemed to be none leaking through the bandage, though he would still have to see the wound itself—and checking Ezio for fever.

Well. There was no sense in avoiding it. He was Ezio's doctor, after all.

Though part of him dared not get too close, Leonardo took a step forward, and then another, his small and slow steps still managing to get him across the tiny room rather quickly. Up close, he could see the smaller details, such as the particular way the scar across his lips curved when he was this relaxed, something that he hadn't ever remembered noticing before. Steeling himself and praying that the assassin wouldn't wake, he brushed away the short locks of hair that tumbled across Ezio's forehead to press his left hand to the skin underneath. It felt a little warm, but not at a level that Leonardo found inappropriate. Ezio always felt warm to the touch, as if his tightly woven musculature generated heat, palpable even through thick fabric; or maybe it was just his imagination.

Leonardo quickly removed his hand from Ezio's forehead, waving it in the air to shake off the tingling heat and trying not to let his gaze linger too long on the prone form beneath him. The medical examination was sufficient for the moment—he would get a closer look when he changed the bandages, but in the meantime it was enough to satisfy the artist's curiosity. Ezio was well, God hadn't struck Leonardo down for staring, and now he could presumably return to his work without further distractions. At least, not until Ezio woke up.

The artist quietly crept backwards, feeling for the door behind him as his eyes remained fixed on his sleeping friend. The spell didn't break until the solid, wooden door barred Ezio from his vision, but even as he turned for the stairs, Leonardo's left hand still tingled.

* * *

><p>The afternoon passed without much excitement. Ettore still couldn't convince Leonardo to work on <em>la Vergine<em>, though he also wasn't pushing as hard as he usually would. At least the boy had been satisfied by the update on Ezio's medical condition, though hours later it seemed as though he was beginning to silently ask himself why the assassin was still asleep—and to be honest, so was Leonardo.

Still, the artist was content with his book, a Latin manuscript of the first volume of Archimedes' _On Floating Bodies_. His friend Borges had retrieved it from the bishop of Padua, and he hoped Vitellozzo would bring him the second volume from Bolgo a San Sepolcro soon. Leonardo's broken Latin made it a slow and strenuous read, but well worth the effort when the man was such a genius. Unlike his contemporaries, he didn't give much credit to the ancient masters' theories of science, but Archimedes was a man before his time, and Leonardo firmly believed that his words held true even to this day.

The sun was beginning to fade from the sky when they heard the stairwell groan under human weight, and both master and student whipped their heads up at the noise. If Leonardo knew himself correctly, he was wearing an expression of surprise that matched Ettore's.

"Ezio?" Leonardo called out, almost tentatively. Of course it was the assassin—who else would it be?—but he suddenly felt the need to make sure he hadn't imagined the noise, despite the fact that Ettore had heard it as well.

"Yes, Leonardo," Ezio replied as he emerged from the doorway, his voice slurred and scratchy from sleep. There was something remarkably sensual about the sound that Leonardo forced himself to ignore, a feat that was fairly easy when he noticed the tense frown on Ezio's face.

"Are you in pain?" Leonardo asked in concern, standing up from his stool. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ettore quickly stand as well, following the artist's lead.

Ezio winced as he nodded. "I am," he admitted. His right arm was bent at the elbow, and his hand grasped at the air near his abdomen as if he were resisting the urge to clutch his wound. He staggered out of the doorway, the confident swagger that he usually displayed absent due to what Leonardo could only imagine must have been severe pain. Had the wound been infected after all, making him too weak to function?

Leonardo instinctively stepped forward, his arms extended to help the ailing assassin, but Ezio brushed him away in order to sit on a nearby bench. The artist glanced at Ettore, unsure of how he was supposed to react, but knowing that the hurt he felt wasn't warranted. The boy merely frowned in response.

"Isn't there something you can do?" Ezio continued, leaning back against the worktable and frowning. His chest rose and fell with his labored breathing, as if each breath pulled at his stitches and irritated the wound.

Leonardo smiled reassuringly. "Whatever ails you, I will try to be of assistance," he said, taking a step closer to Ezio and pressing his hands together in thought. In rare moments like these, he wished he were a trained doctor, rather than someone who had dabbled in surgery and herbology out of curiosity. "I can make a syrup for the pain, though I also worry that there may be an underlying infection that is weakening you." He should have done so sooner, but he had been so distracted by his anxiety that he hadn't been _thinking_. The guilt was crushing, but he forced it aside for the sake of practicality.

"And you can take care of that?" Ezio asked with uncertainty.

"_Sì, sì_." Leonardo waved for Ettore to come assist him as he made his way towards his bookshelf. "We will need to get some ingredients first, as I don't believe I'm well-stocked on herbs at the moment, but when we're done, you _will_ feel better." He briefly turned back to offer Ezio a confident smile, but the other man didn't notice it.

The book he retrieved was a series of notes he had taken about herbology: recipes that he had learned, things that he knew worked. He wasn't always convinced of folk medicines due to many of the frivolous superstitions that its practitioners advocated, and often felt that the best way to preserve one's health was simply to treat the body well. Still, he had seen for himself the way in which certain combinations, in conjunction with a healthy lifestyle, made for excellent healing, and who was he to deny what he had seen?

Flipping open to a recipe that he felt would suit this purpose, he handed the book to Ettore. "Check to see which herbs we have and which we need," he instructed. "Make a list and go to the apothecary to buy the ingredients. And remember: we'll need enough to last us a while."

"_Sì, maestro_," Ettore said, and quickly made his way into the back room, the notebook pressed against his chest.

Leonardo returned to where Ezio sat slumped over, which he found quite worrisome. "Ezio, you need to sit up straight or move towards my work table. I can't look at the wound with you like this."

Ezio looked up with a pale face and a slightly annoyed expression, both of which Leonardo blamed on the pain and tried not to take personally. He straightened his torso and once again leaned back against the worktable, giving the artist access to the bandages around his midsection. They seemed a little more stained with brown than they had been earlier, but not that much more.

"May I?" Leonardo asked as he reached behind him to grab a stool.

"You're the doctor," Ezio said, shrugging as gently as possible. He was either too weary or too afraid to move even his shoulders lest the motion cause him pain.

Sitting down on the stool in front of Ezio and rolling up the sleeves of his doublet, Leonardo loosened the bandages before unraveling them as gently as possible. The first thing to be revealed was the large, purple bruising that surrounded the area, one that he knew would take about as long to heal as the wound itself. Slowly, the wound itself became visible, red and puckered by the sutures that held it together. There was some dried blood, but otherwise it seemed to be healing rather cleanly. To be honest, Leonardo owed it to how straight the cut itself had been, though that had most likely not been the guard's intent.

Leonardo noticed neither pus draining from the wound nor any unpleasant odors, so he imagined that it hadn't been infected, though that didn't explain the way that sweat had started beading on Ezio's forehead. Ordinarily, even with a more serious wound like this one, Ezio would force himself back out onto the streets after a good night's rest; Leonardo couldn't help but wonder what made this time so different. He placed a hand on the assassin's forehead—it was as warm as earlier, and he questioned his earlier conclusion that it hadn't been a fever.

Ettore stepped out of the back room, holding a sheet of paper in one hand and the closed notebook in the order. "I have the list," he announced, placing the notebook down on the table nearest the bookshelf, "but ... there is a lot that I need to get."

Leonardo swore mildly under his breath and stood from his stool. "I will give you my purse, then," he said, making his way towards Ettore. He pulled the purse from his belt and placed it into the boy's hands. "I hope I do not need to tell you to be careful with this?"

"Don't worry, _maestro_! I will keep it safe," Ettore responded emphatically. Then, with a quick nudge of his head in Ezio's direction, he asked: "How is he?"

"I'm not sure," Leonardo admitted quietly, hoping that Ezio wouldn't hear and comment. "The wound doesn't seem to be infected, but he has a light fever." He grasped Ettore's shoulders and spun him in the direction of the door. "_Vai, vai_! We have no time to spare."

"Will these ingredients help?" Ettore asked as Leonardo nudged him towards the door. He had said it a little more loudly than the artist would have liked, and Ezio lifted his head to stare at them questioningly.

"_Sì_," Leonardo insisted, a little tired of being asked. He opened the door for his assistant. "And don't go to that _taccagno_ Andrea! He charged far too much for valerian last time."

"_Capito_!" Ettore responded and dashed out into the fading daylight. Leonardo only hoped that he would be able to purchase all of the ingredients tonight; he didn't want Ezio to suffer into the morning.

"What did Ettore just mean?" Ezio asked, watching suspiciously as the artist crossed the room towards the box of medical supplies, still left out from the previous night. "What aren't you telling me?"

Leonardo sighed at his friend's tone and poured some vinegar over his hands—with Ezio in such a poor health he didn't want to risk infecting the wound, or bringing further infection. "There's nothing to tell, _mio amico._" He shook his hands dry and, retrieving the box from the floor, made his way back to his patient.

"You _always_ have something to tell." Ezio was glaring at him suspiciously, but Leonardo couldn't help smiling at the sight. "And now you're smiling at nothing!"

"Because you're overreacting," Leonardo pointed out, putting the box next to him and sitting back down on the stool.

"I'm _not_ overreacting," Ezio said insistently, leaning back and allowing his head to flop back dramatically. "_Sto morendo,_ Leonardo."

"You aren't dying, Ezio," Leonardo said, rolling his eyes. "You're in pain from your wound and you have a light fever. Now hold still."

"I _am_ holding—" Ezio stopped when Leonardo poked the wound, causing him to hiss loudly and jerk in his seat. While doing so had clearly caused Ezio some pain, the wound itself hadn't felt uncommonly stiff under the pressure. It wasn't infected, then, which was good. It didn't explain Ezio's mild fever, but it was possible that it was from sleeping all day, or from the exhaustion of travel, or something else. Either way, it was most likely unrelated, and the syrup he planned on preparing when Ettore returned would take care of things nicely.

"You'll be fine!" Leonardo concluded cheerfully, sitting up straight. He chuckled when Ezio glared at him. "Don't look at me like that. _Madonna mia_, you're acting like you've never been hurt before."

"You poked it!" Ezio protested, his energy seemingly restored now that he was angry. "Yesterday I was bleeding all over your _bottega_, and today you're poking at the wound like it was a rolled up Codex page waiting to be investigated. Which..." He trailed off, glancing up at the ceiling. "Which actually reminds me, I have some Codex pages for you," he added almost as an afterthought.

"Oh!" Leonardo exclaimed. He felt a sudden surge of excitement at being able to continue piecing together the mysteries of the past. He felt a sense of completion each time he was given the opportunity to decode Altaïr's words, to read his thoughts on the state of a world three hundred years past, through the eyes of someone with a rather unique perspective. He loved being able to share this with Ezio, loved watching the assassin's eyes light up with delight every time Leonardo finished another page, loved reading of things long gone with his best friend. It was a rare moment in which their worlds—the world of an assassin and the world of a thinker—seemed to collide, for which the artist was always grateful.

But this was not the right time. "Later," Leonardo decided, flushing slightly though he couldn't explain why. He stood from the stool and smoothed the wrinkles from his doublet. "For now, I think I should finish treating you."

Ezio nodded, his energy once again sapped. It was unusual to see him so drained; even when he was tired, Ezio always seemed to have so much life. Well, it was nothing that two weeks of relaxation wouldn't cure, if the assassin were willing to let himself relax. At least right now, when he was in this much pain, he seemed unable to do much else.

Leonardo moved to the side of the room to retrieve two rags. One he drenched in water from a bucket; it wasn't too cold, but it would probably help Ezio's fever at least a little. The other he would use to apply vinegar to the wound and clean some of the dried blood. He knew the assassin wouldn't enjoy that part, but the wound wouldn't heal properly if it were dirty.

"Could you give me some wine while you're up?" Ezio asked, lifting his head slightly to shoot Leonardo a somewhat dazed look.

"_Ancora_?" Leonardo asked, frowning. "Ezio, you—"

"_Ma __**dai**_, Leonardo!" Ezio complained, his tone distinctly frustrated. "I'm not an alcoholic, you know that. I just don't want to feel whatever you're going to do next."

Leonardo turned to face Ezio and held the dry rag to his body guiltily. "I know. I was about to point out that it's not a good idea, since you haven't eaten." He had actually been a bit concerned about giving the assassin alcohol since he had drank so much the night before, but there was no sense in voicing that now. Doing so would only anger his friend.

"Ah, yes." Ezio grinned cheekily. "I figured you would feed me after we were done anyway."

Leonardo shook his head and, briefly stopping by Ezio to place the rag over the assassin's forehead, went to retrieve a bottle of wine. There were only two left, he noticed in dismay. They had been gifts from one of his last patrons, good bottles that were meant to be enjoyed and not drunk rapidly to ease pain. Still, Ezio wanted wine, and, unwilling to refuse his friend, he uncorked the bottle and poured a glass for himself before returning to the assassin.

"_Grazie_," Ezio said, grabbing the bottle and taking a long sip. Clearly he did _not_ want to feel whatever pain he currently felt.

"You know," Leonardo pointed out after a sip from his own cup, "the syrup I intend to make later _will_ help with the pain."

"_Lo so_," Ezio stated simply before taking another sip. "But I have wine _now_."

Well, there was no arguing with that logic. Rolling his eyes, Leonardo poured some vinegar over the rag—briefly reminding himself to have Ettore buy some more the next time he sent the boy to the market—and set to work on cleaning the wound. A small hiss from Ezio was the only acknowledgment he received.

After a few long moments of working in silence, the artist decided that the room was too quiet. "You know, Ezio, I dreamt of a marvelous new weapon last night," he started, eager to share his new idea with someone who could ostensibly benefit from it. "If I can work out some of the conceptual flaws, it may be a useful tool for you."

Ezio, who had shut his eyes and resigned himself to pain, opened one eye and glanced down at Leonardo. "Could we talk about this some other time? When I'm in less pain, perhaps?"

Leonardo flushed with shame. "I ... merely thought that you would like to be distracted."

"Not with thoughts of fighting, no," Ezio pointed out. "That's how I was wounded in the first place."

"Well..." Leonardo was at a loss. Since when did they have difficulty talking to each other? "Would you like to hear about ... the flight of birds?"

Now Ezio opened both eyes in horror and shook his head emphatically. "I don't want to think about flying ever again."

Hearing that hurt Leonardo more than he wanted to admit. It wasn't just that Ezio dreaded something that brought Leonardo such joy, something that he found so beautiful and inspiring, but the fact that Leonardo had been the one to feed this contempt. He knew that the first pass on the flying machine had been disastrous, but had the second been as well?

"Leonardo, you're pressing too hard," Ezio hissed, tightening the hand that held the bottle of wine.

"Oh, _mi dispiace_," Leonardo responded, and lightened his touch.

"Anyway, I _do_ need to eat when we're done," Ezio persisted, though his face seemed to fall almost as soon as he spoke those words. "Does ... Ettore eat meat?"

Leonardo frowned. "No," he answered. "He chose to renounce meat when he came to study with me. Of his own volition, too; I didn't even ask him." He felt a tinge of pride as he spoke those words, but his suspicion still nagged at him. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I suppose you don't keep meat here."

The artist stopped his work and looked up at his friend, who was staring back down at him with an unreadable gaze. "You wa—" He stopped himself, the sudden churning in his stomach making it difficult to speak. "No," he finally finished, "we don't."

"Ah." Ezio leaned back and nonchalantly took a sip of wine. "_Non è un problema_. We'll figure something out."

Leonardo definitely sensed that the assassin was lying, or at least was making less of a big deal about it than he would have liked. He knew that the subject of food would come up at some point, and had imagined that Ezio would have difficulty adapting to a vegetarian diet, but hadn't anticipated how uncomfortable it would be to actually _address_ it. He wasn't sure how much meat Ezio ate ordinarily, and therefore how willing he would be to consent to the artist's lifestyle. Leonardo briefly wondered whether it would be difficult for him to consent to Ezio's, at least in terms of providing the man with meat. He had taken meals with patrons before and had learned to be in the same area as someone who was eating meat so long as the food no longer matched its original form—it would have been rude to spurn his patrons, after all. But the idea of having to buy and cook meat, or even to know that meat was being prepared in his kitchen ... no, he wasn't sure if he could do it, no matter how much he wanted Ezio's stay to be comfortable.

The wound was clean enough, so Leonardo took fresh bandages from his box of medical supplies and rewrapped the wound; before he knew it, he was done. "There." Leonardo leaned back and put his hands on his thighs, locking eyes with Ezio. "Now, let's see what I have for you to eat."

"Nothing too complicated, _per favore_," Ezio said, staying in his seat as Leonardo stood. "I'm not feeling well."

"Are you nauseous too?" Leonardo asked, frowning and crossing his arms.

"No, I just don't have much appetite. Also, my head hurts." Ezio pulled the wet cloth from his forehead and dropped it on the worktable with a splat. "Just some _pane_, I think."

Leonardo nodded and made his way towards the pantry in the back. "I have some honey as well, if you'd like," he added over his shoulder.

"That sounds good."

Ettore would have to go to market soon, Leonardo realized almost as soon as he opened the pantry. They would need more food to accommodate Ezio, but Leonardo also wanted to ensure that their guest would have the kinds of foods he liked to eat—meat aside. Repressing a shudder, he took the rest of the loaf of bread, which was still fairly soft, as well as a jar of honey and a knife back into the main room of the workshop, presenting it to the weary-looking assassin.

Ezio wordlessly opened the jar and extracted a generous amount of honey. Leonardo added that and more bread to his mental shopping list as he sat. "Are you hungry?" the assassin suddenly asked.

Truthfully, yes, he was, but Leonardo figured that he would wait until Ettore returned for them to make their own dinner. Come to think of it, where was that boy? "No," Leonardo answered, glancing outside and frowning at the darkening sky.

"Are you sure?" Ezio paused long enough to take a large bite of honey-smeared bread; the assassin's manners were sometimes a little less than noble. "Because you can have some of this if you want," he added between chews.

"I'm just wondering where Ettore is, that's all," Leonardo explained, his voice tinged with worry. "It's getting quite late; he should be back with the ingredients I sent him out for by now."

"It hasn't been long since he left," Ezio pointed out.

Didn't Ezio care? No, there was no sense in thinking of those things. "Perhaps." Leonardo smiled sheepishly. "I also don't want to keep you up waiting if you're tired."

Ezio nodded and took another large bite, chewing thoughtfully "I _am_ a bit tired," he decided after a long pause, and his eyes seemed to droop as soon as he spoke. "I'll probably lie down after I'm done eating."

"You don't want to wait until I've prepared your medicine?" Leonardo asked, feeling suddenly dismayed. He was desperately trying to cling to some semblance of hope and salvage an evening that had gone somewhat disastrously, though in an unexpected way. He felt uneasy; he had spent so much time worrying about Ezio being angry or disgusted with him that he wasn't sure how to deal with what seemed to be indifference. Surely Leonardo's kindness still meant something to him, even after so many years of kindness.

Ezio shook his head, looking down at the remaining piece of bread. "I just need to lie down." He placed the bread on the table next to the open jar of honey and took a long sip of wine. "I think I ate too quickly."

"You were hungry," Leonardo responded, wringing his hands. "Drinking all that wine probably didn't help—we'll just have to make sure you eat more tomorrow. Ettore makes a wonderful soup from peppers that I think you'll love."

"_Sì_." Ezio glanced at his friend and pushed himself to stand on unsteady feet. "I think I need to rest now. I am sorry I could not sit with you longer, _mio amico_."

"No, _va bene_," Leonardo lied. At least Ezio had referred to him as _friend_. He hated himself for thinking that. "You need to recover. Do you need help getting upstairs?"

Ezio shook his head and walked past the artist, only stumbling a little to his credit. "I'm just going to lie down for a while. I'll come back down when you've prepared the medicine, _d'accordo_?"

"_D'accordo_." Leonardo smiled reassuringly. "And let me know if you need anything else."

The assassin nodded and disappeared upstairs with slow steps. Leonardo found himself unable to move until he heard the bedroom door click shut, at which point he sat down on the nearest bench with a heavy heart.

When Ettore returned home, it was with far more herbs than he had been sent to collect—Leonardo didn't have the strength to scold him for spending so much money. By that point, the workshop was dark and needed more candles, though Leonardo hadn't bothered to take care of it the entire time that he had been waiting. The boy must have noticed this, particularly since the artist was so picky about light. Ettore was sharp, after all, and after living in the _bottega_ for several years he was able to easily figure out when something was wrong. Fortunately, he chose not to comment this time.

"Is he okay?" Ettore finally asked, removing the last packet of sugar from the bag and placing it with the rest of the supplies. "Have you figured out what's wrong?"

Leonardo nodded. "He's just tired," he explained. "His wound is recovering and his body is tired from so much time spent fighting and traveling. He mentioned spending some time in Monteriggioni, but I don't know if he really got much rest." He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know if he really knows how."

"Are ... you okay, _maestro_?" Ettore asked, frowning. The boy took a few steps closer, and looked like he was debating checking his master's temperature. "You seem tired as well."

The artist smiled and decided not to answer. "Go, prepare dinner for us," he said instead. "I must work on Ezio's medicine."

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><p>Leonardo didn't finish the syrup until after Ettore had gone upstairs to bed, due in part to the fact that he had opted to take a break to enjoy vegetable stew with his apprentice. The boy seemed to sense that something was off about his master, but it honestly wasn't that hard to deduce. Leonardo had barely said a world all evening, distracted as he was by different herbs and vials. What was he supposed to tell Ettore, that Ezio felt distant and their friendship strained? That he worried about what the two weeks together would mean for their relationship in the long run?<p>

That, despite how uncomfortable it all had been, he still wanted nothing more than to be close to the assassin?

With a container of syrup in one hand and a candle in the other, Leonardo once again climbed the stairs towards Ezio's room. Perhaps he could keep Ezio company now that he wasn't forced to stay downstairs and prepare the medicinal syrup. The assassin would presumably be relaxed and comfortable enough to maintain a better conversation than earlier. It had never been difficult for them to talk before—or, at least, for Ezio to listen to Leonardo talk about his more recent projects. Come to think of it, had they ever really had a conversation that hadn't been about Codex pages or whatever Leonardo was working on at the time? Surely they knew how to simply talk to each other: to gossip about recent happenings, or talk about the state of the world outside of this war of Assassins and Templars, or philosophize like he did with Antonio. Had Ezio ever really talked about how he felt about life, or asked Leonardo for his opinion? The fact that he couldn't remember depressed him greatly.

Arriving at the door, he knocked and, unsurprisingly, received no answer. The artist sighed. Ezio must have already fallen asleep; it had been nearly two hours, after all, and the assassin had mentioned that he was quite tired. How he managed to be tired after sleeping all day was a marvel, but Ezio _had_ always been capable of incredible things.

Leonardo quietly opened the door, peering inside to check on the man within: sure enough, he slept. He couldn't help but feel disappointed, as if Ezio hadn't even cared enough to wait for the artist to prepare the medicine. He toyed with the idea of waking the assassin to make sure that he could drink the syrup, maybe talk for a bit…. No, it wasn't worth the effort of dealing with a man grumpy from sleep. He would rather care for a contentedly sleeping friend than a man so tired that he would forget his friendship.

He left the container on the little table in the side of the room and, blowing out the candle that Ezio had left lit, left the assassin to his peace—Leonardo hated that room anyway. Perhaps he was being dramatic, but his friendship with Ezio was something that he cherished too deeply. He enjoyed spending time with Antonio and Teodora and even Rosa, and was eternally grateful for Ettore's presence in his daily life, but Ezio was something rare and wonderful. He worried that he would never find anyone quite like the assassin ever again.

Leonardo returned to the main room a lot more tired than he had been before going upstairs, but his mind was spinning. He was torn between the need for sleep and the need for activity, a feeling he knew quite well. Those were the nights of piled up sketches, of designs that would never see the light of day, and, if he were truly in a bad mood, of _St. Jerome_—though he wouldn't dare reentering Ezio's room just to work on that godforsaken painting.

Tonight, however, he was not plagued by fits of endless creativity, but with thoughts of the assassin upstairs. He would need more than one dose of the syrup, since it was unlikely that the pain would stop for at least several more days. A salve for the wound would help—perhaps he could devise some sort of recipe from his notes and what he knew would work. He would have to leave aside some valerian, of course, if Ezio needed help sleeping. The assassin would grow restless eventually; and he would be ready for that moment. It was his job, as a doctor of sorts, to make things as easy for his patient as possible.

Ezio needed help. Leonardo was his friend. Friends always helped each other, even when those friends didn't realize that they were hurting each other. But what was one ache in Leonardo's chest where Ezio was covered in scars and bruises? Leonardo had no right to complain.

He fell asleep at his worktable hours later, surrounded by little bottles of syrup.

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Entra_ – come in

_Buona mattina_ – good morning

_Va bene_ – used as: okay

_padovano_ – a person from Padua

_È mezzogiorno_ – It's midday

_Non importa_ – It doesn't matter

_Vai!_ – Go!

_taccagno_ – cheapskate

_Sto morendo_ – I'm dying

_Ancora?_ – Again?

_Ma __**dai**__!_ – used as: come **on**!

_Lo so_ – I know

_Non è un problema_ – It's not a problem

_per favore_ – please

_d'accordo_ - okay

**Other notes:**

The cannon that Leonardo describes is an actual one he mentioned to Ludovico il Moro Sforza, Duke of Milan in a letter, though I don't think he ever built it. The idea would have actually come to him around 1481-82, which is likely when he would have sent that letter, but Leo actually should have been in Milan this whole time so let's not get too picky. XD

The sketch of Giovanni hanging (and the description of his clothing) is actually based on a sketch da Vinci made of the execution of Bernardo di Bandino Baroncelli, AKA one of the Pazzi Conspirators. Leo wouldn't have been able to witness Baroncelli's death according to the game canon, but the concept of him drawing a man being hung from the gallows was so haunting that I had to include it. The only other character that would have been relevant is Francesco de'Pazzi, and yet the idea of Leo walking around Florence during a major riot is fairly laughable. Besides, I liked the idea of him walking into the Piazza della Signoria, recognizing Giovanni, Federico, and Petruccio, and recording the memory out of horror. And no, Ezio does _not_ know that Leo did this. Yet?

"St. Jerome in the Wilderness" is an unfinished da Vinci dated around 1480, and said to have been painted during a period of great distress. Naturally, this would be a bit of a sore subject.

And because I failed to mention it in the last chapter, I'll say it here: "The Virgin of the Rocks" is a painting dated 1483-1486, commissioned by the Milanese Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception along with two side panels by the de Predis brothers. In standard da Vinci fashion, it took him far too long to complete and there was a huge legal dispute. The whole affair wasn't solved until 1506, when the Confraternity said they would pay da Vinci if he came back to Milan and finished it within two years; he did, and he was paid, huzzah. Interestingly, there are two versions of "The Virgin on the Rocks" that are actually quite different despite being so similar. Which one was given to the Confraternity, and why a second one exists is a heavily debated subject.

Archimedes was a Greek mathematician, engineer, astronomer, and physicist, and one of the ancient thinkers who had the grand honor of having da Vinci completely fanboy after him. Da Vinci didn't believe most of the ancient theories that his contemporaries held to be true, but he seemed to make an exception for Archimedes, as well as the architect Vitruvius (for who the Vitruvian Man was named). Archimedes' texts had been translated to Latin by this point, which meant that Leonardo, despite having a shaky, self-taught Latin, would have been able to read them—in fact, the copies from Padua and Bolgo a San Sepolcro were actually sent to him, historically. Leonardo may not have actually taught himself Latin until the 1490s, but, again, he was also supposed to be in Milan. XD


	3. Chapter 3

This chapter is a bit shorter than the rest: I split this one into two because the complete version would have been waaaaaay too long for a chapter. The good news is, I've actually already started chapter 4, woo! Hopefully it won't take too long to write.

Also, thank you all for your kind words and support! I'm a little blown away that people like the story this much. :D

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><p><strong>The Verdict of Experience<strong>

III.

Leonardo vaguely remembered waking up at his worktable and dragging himself up to bed at some ungodly hour of the night, but that certainly didn't mean that he was ready to start the day when Ettore came to wake him. To his credit, the artist didn't whine when Ettore yanked the covers from the bed, but very calmly asked for more time because he hadn't slept nearly enough the night before. He must have been a pitiful sight, because Ettore put the blanket back down on the bed and wordlessly left the room, giving Leonardo more blessed time to sleep.

Ettore only returned about an hour or two later with a plate of honey-drizzled fruit and a message from the patron Leonardo was supposed to meet that morning: their meeting was rescheduled for a few days later, and he hoped the artist felt better soon. How Ettore had managed _that _without a letter from his master was no small wonder, and he only hoped that the boy had been tactful.

Despite a slow start to the morning, Leonardo was determined to accomplish something that day. The previous night's restlessness still nagged at him, demanding that he paint or draw or invent, though preferably something more practical. Maybe he could design something, or read more of his Archimedes—_or_ he could translate the Codex pages Ezio had mentioned the night before. They must have been in the discreet satchel that Ezio carried with him, piled in the back with his armor, which was all where Ettore had left them when he washed and hung the robes to dry. Come to think of it, Leonardo would probably have to lend Ezio some of his own clothing during his stay, since he doubted the assassin carried any spares. The matter of Ezio's clothing had always somewhat baffled him, since he wasn't sure if Ezio even _had_ spare robes, but it was something that he was always too embarrassed to ask.

When Leonardo got downstairs, he noticed that the bottles of syrup and salve that he had made for Ezio had been meticulously arranged on a table on the side of the room—Ettore's doing, and bless the fact that the boy didn't ask about the madness that had motivated him to make so much. Leonardo couldn't quite explain it himself, other than to say that his friend _needed_ it, and whatever Ezio needed he was determined to provide. It was an unspoken promise that overnight had turned into a most solemn and unbreakable vow. Anything to ensure Ezio's continued success, health, and happiness.

"Ettore," Leonardo said, sitting at the workbench where he had left his copy of Archimedes—he hadn't put it away when he had stopped reading to take care of Ezio. "You'll need to go to the market this morning, since I'm afraid that we're running low on food. When was the last time you went?"

Ettore furrowed his brows in thought. "Last Thursday, I think?"

"Hm, well, we have a guest, regardless," Leonardo pointed out. "We'll need more food to accommodate for three people."

"Will he be paying his share?" Ettore asked quietly, as if he hadn't meant for the question to be heard—and from his somewhat sullen tone, he probably hadn't.

"Of course not!" Leonardo exclaimed as he opened his book, glancing up in surprise as he did so. "Ezio is a _guest_. He shouldn't have to pay for his meals."

"But for _two weeks_?" Ettore frowned. "_Maestro_, that's too much! You haven't gotten a commission in a while, and if you don't get one from _Signore_ Morosini then—"

"_Ettore_," Leonardo interrupted sternly, though he immediately winced when he saw Ettore recoil. Leonardo was slow to anger, and just as rarely felt the need to scold his well-behaved apprentice—he could imagine that the sight was jarring to witness, and felt a pang of guilt. "I appreciate your concern, but let _me_ worry about our finances," he continued, softening his voice once more. "Trust me, we are secure with money and have more than enough to spare to feed Ezio."

"_Sì_, _maestro_," Ettore responded glumly, averting his gaze towards the floor.

Leonardo felt a pang of guilt run through him—he hated seeing the boy like that. The artist had to admit that he was terrible at scolding, and silently blessed the fact that Ettore was not only well-behaved, but also hadn't figured out that Leonardo was secretly a pushover. "_Coraggio_, Ettore," he said, smiling sincerely. "Now, let us decide what you will be buying, _sì_?"

Ettore nodded, a reassured smile spreading across his features as he retrieved his notebook. "What do we need?"

"More bread, certainly," Leonardo said, leaning back and stretching his neck—it was a bit sore from sleeping with his head on his desk for several hours. "Chickpeas, apples, pears, mushrooms, rice—and lots of vegetables, I'm not picky. We'll need a lot more than usual to feed three people. Oh, and be sure to buy peppers! I crave your pepper broth." And he had promised that soup to Ezio, but something told him not to mention it to his apprentice.

"_Certo_!" Ettore responded, his enthusiasm only suppressed by his focus as he wrote the grocery list.

"What else?" Leonardo asked himself. "_Un po' di miele_, since I know we are almost out, some farro..." He frowned, his stomach tensing and knotting. "_Pollo_."

Ettore looked up from his list, dumbfounded. "Chicken?"

"Oh, no, _pesce_ instead. That is this region's specialty, after all." Leonardo massaged the back of his neck, feeling suitably uncomfortable and slightly queasy. "_Non so_. You used to eat meat, right? What would you recommend?"

Ettore opened his mouth and almost immediately shut it, his eyes darting between the list, his quill, and his master. "This ... is for Ezio?" he finally asked, his expression a stunning blend of growing realization, shock, anger, confusion—oh, he wanted to draw it, remember it for future reference.

"He ... well, I imagined that he would like to eat some meat during his stay, since he has not chosen to live like us," Leonardo reasoned, feeling a bit flustered. "I would not partake, of course, but it seems cruel to deny him—"

"_No_! It's not _right_!" Ettore exploded, petulantly throwing his notebook and quill to the floor where it landed with a sharp thud. Leonardo would have reminded his apprentice to treat his notebook—where his imagination was committed to memory, made nearly tangible—with more respect if he weren't so surprised.

"Ettore—" the artist started, but he was quickly cut off by his furious pupil.

"I _know_ that he is a friend and a guest and I _understand_, but I ... it..." Ettore threw his arms up in the air and began pacing. "It's just _not_ _right_, _maestro_! It's not!"

Leonardo tensed as he watched his pupil move, unsettled by his youthful rage and slight difficulty expressing himself. It was easy to forget that Ettore was so young when he so often acted like an adult. "Why is it not right?"

"You do not eat meat," Ettore declared, the words so simple that they held an inexorable truth. Of course it was a truthful statement, but the concept, despite how resolute he was on the matter, never seemed to carry this much weight.

"But I have been in the company of people who eat meat," the artist pointed out. "I have never been upset before."

"But—!" Ettore interrupted himself with a short cry of frustration. Leonardo briefly wondered if they were being too loud, and Ezio had woken up and was hearing all of this. "It's not like that! This isn't about what people do in front of you!"

Leonardo frowned. "Then what is it about?"

"You _said_," Ettore started, almost accusatory as he spun to properly face Leonardo, "that you did not like harming animals. But _this_! This is harming animals!"

Leonardo massaged his temples. "If you are concerned about me ... _betraying my beliefs_, as I think you are saying..." Though he didn't want to admit it, the boy had a point: he _did_ feel uncomfortable with the idea of meat being prepared in his home. "I will be fine," the artist continued, steeling himself. "I am merely providing Ezio with foods from his regular diet, not partaking myself. I would do this for anyone living under my roof." He leaned back and considered the situation. "In fact, it was bound to happen. I've been fortunate to avoid it so far: my assistants in Florence didn't live with me, so they ate vegetables at the _bottega_ and meat when they were with their families; you chose to forego meat altogether... Really it was just a matter of time before _someone_ under this roof—"

"But that's just it!" Ettore insisted, once again interrupting his master. "I—_I _did not continue eating meat when I came here, so why can't _he_? I stopped harming animals, as you said, because it's _wrong_."

"I ... did not _force_ you to live as I do," Leonardo said, suddenly feeling incredibly guilty. He rose from his seat and quickly crossed the floor to where Ettore had planted himself, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Ettore, you made that decision for yourself. I respect that—_greatly_—but I would not ask anyone who stayed in my home to go to the same lengths."

"But it's not _lengths_, _maestro_, it's the _right thing to do_," Ettore insisted, his eyes wide and distressed. "It's not just how you live, it's who you are—who _we_ are—and I—" The boy's voice abruptly cut off as he looked down at the floor, the small sniffle betraying his reason for doing so.

Leonardo squeezed his eyes shut and sighed; his resolve crumpled when Ettore's face did. "You're right," he said, but even as he spoke a nagging voice told him no, not true, he's not betraying his beliefs—he watched other people eat meat without condemning them, how was this any different? His heart ached for two opposing reasons, but he didn't want to upset Ettore further. "_Corraggio_, Ettore," he repeated, squeezing Ettore's shoulders. "There is no reason to be upset. I will not bring meat into this house."

"_Mi dispiace_, _maestro_," Ettore apologized, though Leonardo felt it was unnecessary. He hiccupped and, doing so, threw his arms around the artist and held on tight; Leonardo instinctively pulled the boy close and held him.

He couldn't quite explain what he felt in that moment—something paternal, he supposed. Was this is how fathers ordinarily acted with their sons, the ones that were _natural_ and not the bastards they sent off to Florence because their talents in art were convenient excuses to get them away? Not that Leonardo's relationship with his father has been so terrible, merely strained. He supposed he didn't know what families were really supposed to be like, save for the artistic families he developed with _maestro_ Verrocchio, Domenico, Francesco, Pietro, Lorenzo... Verrocchio had been fatherly to him, or as fatherly as a _maestro_ could be to his _apprendista._ Was this the role Leonardo now played for Ettore? He had to admit that he had never seen their relationship in that light, nor had he ever considered himself particularly apt for fatherhood, but no matter. This was the role he would play in this moment, and it warmed his heart to do so.

"Ezio is my friend," Leonardo reminded Ettore, caressing the boy's sandy brown head. "He will understand."

* * *

><p>Leonardo found the Codex scrolls in Ezio's satchel, which, as expected, was piled with the rest of his armor and sitting with the hanging robes. He began to feel the same tingle of excitement that he felt whenever he worked on these Codex pages, which was a pleasant change from nervousness and exhaustion. He lived for puzzles, for these opportunities to exercise his intellect. Not only was the reward of knowledge great, but it also privately validated his intelligence, something that seemed to be disdained by the intellectual elite and praised by thieves and prostitutes. Well, may he always associate himself with scoundrels.<p>

He settled down at his desk and unrolled the scrolls reverently. The first was a page covered with letters, which he knew by now meant that it was a page of Altaïr's thoughts and philosophy. They were less practical than the diagrams and instructions—and the second Codex page seemed to be just that, with a drawing of what seemed to be a small, discreet firearm—but in many ways they were even more useful. They offered a lot of knowledge about the nature of the Assassin Order, which seemed small and fragmented compared to the one housed in the great fortress of Masyaf, and Altaïr's words offered a strange perspective on the world Leonardo thought he understood. Though the notion seemed almost illogical, he felt like he was preserving the past by learning of it. It was a strange thing for him to think because the past was always preserved due to the way it impacted and shaped the present, but if nobody could remember those events, it would be as if they had never occurred. Masyaf was nearly forgotten at this point except perhaps to a select few, and Leonardo had made it his mission to remember on behalf of the rest of the world.

As interesting as the philosophical pages were, however, pages with diagrams and instructions tended to require more work to finish, and so Leonardo started with the one with the plans for the firearm. The cipher was difficult to find, but once he did, the pattern unfolded in front of his eyes and he began fervently scribbling out the meaning.

The eventual creak at the top of the stairs alerted him to the fact that Ezio was awake, and Leonardo was torn between surprise that the assassin had woken before noon and apprehension at the same. Ezio had not been in high spirits the day before, and while he had never been purposefully mean, his inconsiderate behavior had taken its toll on the artist. It seemed wrong that their ten-year friendship was being tested in this manner: trial-by-forced-to-spend-time-together made the last decade seem shallow and worthless.

To Leonardo's relief, Ezio did not appear to be in much pain when he reached the main room of the workshop. A slight unsteadiness to his gait and a frown indicated that the assassin was not entirely himself, but he already seemed much stronger than yesterday. The bandages, still visible since Ezio's tunic was hanging with his robes—and Leonardo decided that the younger man _definitely_ needed more clothing before it became _too_ distracting—didn't seem to have any blood on it, which was promising. The frown was slightly less promising, though it was certainly an improvement.

"_Buona mattina_," Leonardo offered cheerfully in the hopes that he could muster a smile out of the other man. It didn't work, but it had been worth a try. "You look better this morning."

"_Sì_," Ezio responded. He immediately took a seat at Leonardo's worktable, leaning back and shutting his eyes as if he hadn't just slept for half a day already. "I woke up in some pain, but the syrup you left me ... helped a lot, actually."

"Did I not tell you that it would?" Leonardo asked, beaming not only at Ezio's pain, but also rather selfishly at the success of his recipe.

Ezio nodded, though it was without much enthusiasm. "You did. It's too bad you hadn't been able to make it before I fell asleep last night, though," he said, yawning. "I don't think I'll use _wine_ to help with pain anymore—I had a terrible headache when I woke up this morning." Cracking open an eye, he waved a hand in the air as if to assuage Leonardo's concern. "But I am fine now, don't worry. Your syrup works wonders."

Well, it wasn't exactly a _thank you_, but it was better than nothing, he supposed. "I'm glad you're feeling better," Leonardo said, rising from his chair as he suddenly unable to contain his nervous energy. "I–if you'd like, I also made a salve for the wound that will help it heal faster. It should also help with the itching you'll experience later."

Despite his nervousness, he couldn't help but smile at the memory that suddenly crossed his mind, from when Ezio had gotten himself wounded by a guard at the murder of Uberto Alberti. Coincidentally, he knew exactly how and when the injury had occurred: he had been at the scene to support his _maestro_ Verrocchio's exhibit and had witnessed what he had to admit was a sloppy crime of passion. It hadn't been the first time he had seen Ezio kill, since the young man had saved him from a guard only a few days earlier, so the act itself, no matter how hateful and hate-filled, hadn't bothered the artist. In fact, at the time, he had been more concerned about making sure the wound was treated than anything else—the young assassin had very abruptly appeared at Leonardo's _bottega_ to say goodbye before escaping to Monteriggioni, and stayed a while longer to have his arm sewn back together. While Leonardo briefly wondered how the wound was healing after the fact—he hadn't had a lot of practice with _live _patients—he quickly forgot all about it.

Two years later, when Ezio returned to Leonardo with more Codex pages, one of the first things he had done was complained. Leonardo's stitches had _itched_, he had said, and had refused to listen to the artist's perfectly reasonable explanation that the itching was a natural part of the healing process. Of course, a few days later, Ezio had sulkily returned to the _bottega_ to apologize: a wound he had recently received at the battle of San Gimignano had begun to itch terribly despite not being Leonardo's handiwork—a fact that the artist hadn't let him live down.

"If we start applying the salve now, you'll experience minimal itching, actually," Leonardo added. "Do you want me to redress your wound now?"

"No, perhaps later," Ezio responded, shaking his head. "Right now, I—"

"I also made plenty of syrup to help manage the pain," Leonardo interrupted, perhaps a bit too eagerly but he didn't care at this point. "That wait you won't have to wait or resort to wine next time you're in pain. And if you ever have trouble sleeping, I can easily boil some valerian to relax you." He gestured towards the side table where the herbs and medication had been arranged. "See? I made all of that last night."

Ezio followed the line of Leonardo's arm towards the table, and his eyes widened when he saw everything that sat there. It was arguably the most animated expression Leonardo had seen on the young man's face in a long, long time. "You made all that last night?" the assassin asked in disbelief. When Leonardo nodded, he whistled appreciatively and added: "I don't know how you do it, Leonardo. That will last us _much _longer than we will need."

"Don't underestimate your wound, Ezio. It is more severe than you think." Almost as soon as he spoke, Leonardo filled with worry for his friend's health. The artist let his gaze trail down the well-defined torso to observe the wound again, and he found himself wondering if Ezio would deemphasize or hide his pain for the sake of more freedom. He had been honest—_brutally_ honest—about his pain before, but the artist knew that Ezio would beg for freedom as soon as he felt more able. "Are you sure you don't need anything?" he asked, his gaze briefly lingering on the wound before flitting back up to Ezio's face.

"Some food, actually." The assassin pressed a hand to his stomach, careful not to irritate the wound or put any pressure on the bruises. "I think eating last night reminded my stomach that it needs food to live. I wasn't too hungry last night, but today? _Ahi_, it is not pleasant."

Leonardo chuckled. "_Ma certo_, though I don't think we have much. You left a bit of bread, so unless Ettore ate it with breakfast, it should still be there."

"Well, let's hope he didn't," Ezio said lowly, and in a tone that Leonardo didn't appreciate.

"Do you have something against my student?" he asked, a little confused. He knew that Ettore was mad at Ezio for being inconsiderate, but prior to these recent events the boy and the assassin had gotten along well enough. Leonardo couldn't think of any reason for Ezio to hold any grudges.

"What? No," Ezio responded, his eyes briefly widening before narrowing in offense. "I told you that he reminds me of Petruccio, so why would I think any ill of him?"

Leonardo winced, realizing his mistake. "I ... apologize, Ezio. I didn't mean to suggest something."

"_Non preoccuparti_," Ezio said, though from the distance in his voice Leonardo wondered if there actually _was_ something to worry about.

"If you want to wait," the artist suggested, hoping to smooth things over, "Ettore should be back from the markets in a little bit with more food. He could make us an early lunch—perhaps that pepper soup I mentioned last night?"

The idea didn't seem to excite Ezio all that much, as the younger man sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I'll eat what's left of the bread for now."

Leonardo fetched the last piece of bread from the kitchen—without honey, unfortunately, since Ettore seemed to have used the last of it on the honey-drizzled fruit this morning. Even as he did so, however, he wondered why he wasn't more offended. He certainly had cause to be, as Ettore had insisted this morning, but he really only felt a little _hurt_. It wasn't the fact that providing for Ezio was a chore for him, but the lack of gratitude or excitement that the assassin showed was disheartening. He dimly wondered whether he should stand up for himself, but honestly didn't have the energy to do so.

The artist returned to the main room with the last of the bread, which, unsurprisingly, Ezio wordlessly and unceremoniously shoved into his mouth.

"What is Ettore getting?" Ezio finally asked as Leonardo returned to his seat, the bread now chewed and swallowed.

"Just some necessities," Leonardo said, settling back down in front of the Codex pages. A part of his mind immediately returned to the puzzle on the page before him and he set back to work, though as usual he kept part of his focus on Ezio as well. Working on the Codex while chatting with him felt pleasantly familiar, as if none of the past day's awkwardness had ever happened. "Vegetables, rice, beans—what we usually get," he casually added.

_No meat_, the addendum that silently hung in the air. Leonardo hadn't needed to say it aloud for Ezio to casually raise his eyebrows and glance aside. "_Bene_," he said simply, likewise choosing not to voice his true feelings.

Leonardo glanced up, feeling conflicted. He wanted to apologize to his friend, but why should he? Instead, he opted to follow Ezio's lead and change the subject. "So," the artist started, returning to his work on the Codex page, "I meant to ask you before: how is your family? Your mother?"

From the way Ezio winced lightly, his eyes flitting to the bookshelf in the corner as he kept silent, Leonardo could tell that he had asked the wrong question.

"I'm, ah, making good work on this Codex page," Leonardo said, silently cursing his stupidity. "I don't know if you looked at them after you retrieved them, but they're quite interesting."

"I noticed you were working on them," Ezio said, meeting Leonardo's eyes once more. There was something about the neutrality in Ezio's tone and expression that seemed forced, and as a result the artist grew nervous. What he offended somehow? Angry that Leonardo had gone through his things? "I remember looking at them when I first received them," Ezio continued, tilting his head back as he thought. "One was a set of blueprints, and the other just text."

"I'm working on the blueprints now," Leonardo explained, gesturing to the page and notes in front of him. As long as they were discussing such logical matters, he felt as though he could keep calm. "From what I see right now, it appears to be a small _arma da fuoco_ that is concealed in the bracer of your hidden blade. Very complex, particularly for such ancient technology. The other page—"

"Wait, you mean to say that you can construct a firearm for my bracer?" Ezio interrupted. His eyes lit up excitedly and Leonardo suddenly felt quite bitter. "When can you make it?"

Leonardo leaned back in his seat, pressing his hands together and pressing his fingertips to his chin as he considered the situation. "It won't take much longer for me to decrypt and translate this," he started. "The construction will take ... longer. There is a matter of acquiring the materials, building it on such a small scale—I've never actually _constructed_ a full-sized firearm before, much less one so—"

"How long?" Ezio repeated, this time more curtly.

The artist raised an eyebrow. "Why, are you eager to test it?"

"Of course I am," Ezio responded, crossing his arms across his chest as his posture straightened defensively. "This is a chance for me to train using a new weapon that could help me against the Templars."

"Inside of my _bottega_?" Leonardo briefly entertained the idea of Ezio using some of his unfinished works as target practice, but that was too undignified of an end for even the worst of them. He didn't have to love them or show them care, but he refused to allow _any_ of his art to be damaged or otherwise defiled. Not to mention the risk it posed for himself and Ettore, and perhaps even for Ezio. "_No_. It's too dangerous."

"Then I'll do it outside."

The artist sighed. "Ezio, we agreed that you would stay _inside_ for the next two weeks. I won't go back on my word."

"I didn't say that," Ezio countered. "I merely said I was staying here with you."

"And I told Antonio that I would keep an eye on you and prevent you from doing anything reckless." Leonardo shook his head. "Or have you forgotten that every guard in Venezia is looking for you?"

"I have to do _something_ while I'm here," Ezio pleaded—though it couldn't quite be described as pleading, since he held himself as if he wouldn't listen to Leonardo no matter what the artist's answer was. "I'll _rot _if I don't."

"Two weeks of relaxation will not cause you to _rot_, Ezio," Leonardo argued. "_Stai ragionevole_! It will be good for you to rest, take your mind off of your endless quest..."

"And how would you know?" the assassin retorted, beginning to lose his temper. "You don't live as I do."

Leonardo wasn't sure how to respond to Ezio's statement—and fortunately he didn't have to, because Ettore chose that moment to reenter the _bottega_, the interruption giving him a moment to think. "_Ben tornato_, Ettore," he said and stood from his seat to help his apprentice. "Did you get everything?"

"_Sì_, _maestro_," Ettore responded, lugging several bags into the room. "Marco had some wonderful figs today, so I was sure to buy plenty since I know you love them." He handed one of the bags to Leonardo, and now that he was relieved of part of his burden, he looked over at where Ezio was still sitting. "_Buongiorno_, _Messer_ Ezio," he added, his voice polite and not betraying any of the anger that he had felt earlier.

"_Buongiorno_, Ettore," Ezio responded, his tone similarly polite.

"Did you sleep well?" Ettore asked. Warning bells were sounding in Leonardo's head like the _assassino_'s church bells, though he couldn't specifically explain why.

Ezio rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. "Yes, thank you."

"I'm glad." Ettore, now seemingly satisfied with the polite discourse he had exchanged with the assassin, turned towards his master. "Shall we go put this away?"

"Yes, and then could you start making lunch? I think the pepper soup is a fine choice." As they began walking towards the pantry, Leonardo noticed the incredulous look on the assassin's face, the line of his posture... And yet he still refused to give in on this matter. "Ezio," Leonardo added, clutching the bag to his chest, "I am afraid that I must stand firm on this matter. I will make the _arma da fuoco_ for you as soon as I am able, but more importantly I can't let you go outside to test it until the start of Carnevale. It's too dangerous."

Ezio scoffed. "Too dangerous for a man with a firearm?" he asked, his tone biting. "I think I know how to protect myself."

"We agreed that you were to stay in the _bottega_ until Carnevale," the artist maintained, "and I promised Antonio and Teodora I would keep you in good health until then. I'm sorry, Ezio, but I will do whatever it takes to ensure that you stay in this building for the next two weeks."

"As will _I_," Ettore added impudently, and Leonardo was sure he was trying to make himself seem taller. "So you have to listen to _us_ from now on!"

Leonardo shot his apprentice a brief stern look. "You aren't _helping_, Ettore," he said, before turning back to the assassin. "My decision is made."

Ezio opened his mouth to speak and then shut it, his brow furrowing as he realized that Leonardo would not be moved. "_Va bene_," he stated very plainly. He rose from his chair, his body showing no signs of weakness or pain, and stalked towards the artist and his apprentice. His shoulders squared and his bare torso straightened, and he seemed to grow taller with each step; Leonardo watched the musculature shift and harden as the assassin's body came to life. It was an intimidating sight, but the artist would have been lying to himself if he said that it wasn't also an incredibly appealing one.

The assassin stopped in front of them, and after a long moment in which he simply _stared_ at Leonardo, grabbed one of the pears that sat right at the top of the bag of groceries and announced: "I'll be upstairs."

* * *

><p>The next evening, Leonardo found himself sitting at his desk, massaging his temples as if the action could massage away everything he had just endured. <em>Two days<em> of tension, strained conversation, and what the artist was almost convinced was the beginning of the end of his friendship with Ezio—and perhaps he was once again exaggerating, but it was hard to believe that things could ever be normal again.

Ezio had made good on his word and remained upstairs, or at least until hunger had brought him downstairs once more where he silently waited until Leonardo and Ettore were ready to eat. The meal itself was tense: Ettore had done all he could to ignore Ezio by solely addressing Leonardo; Leonardo had asked Ezio plenty of questions that had mostly gone unanswered or were addressed with short, clipped sentences; and Ezio had sat there sullenly, wordlessly reminding them that he would like nothing more than a piece of meat—not the vegetable stew—and a walk outside. As soon as the meal was over, Ezio returned upstairs, and they didn't see him again until dinner when the cycle restarted. The only deviation to this pattern was when Leonardo cleaned Ezio's wounds or gave him more medicine, though again the assassin had been silent the entire time.

Leonardo never would have imagined himself wishing for Ezio's absence, but after the past two days, something had to change.

He found himself unable sleep even as Ezio presumably dozed happily upstairs, so as he waited for his valerian to brew, he found himself rereading the translated Codex pages. He had already made some good progress with the miniature firearm, though he still needed to buy a few more pieces before he could finish it, which he anticipated doing the next afternoon. His eyes lingered over the philosophical page, however, which had haunted him since he had finished translating it yesterday.

"_I hunted each man—one by one—until all responsible were gone from the world. But there was no joy in this. No satisfaction or release. Their deaths did not bring her back. Did not heal my wounds._"

He didn't know much about Altaïr since man provided little of his actual life and experiences in his Codex, at least as far as he had seen thus far. Still, this page told a story of lost love, revenge, emptiness, and finally finding love once more in spite of everything he had imagined. Leonardo couldn't help but imagine that Altaïr had found a happy ending, and also wondered if—prayed, despite not being a religious man—Ezio would be able to do the same. Both assassins were shaped by traumatic loss and had responded in like manner, and while the timeframe of Altaïr's healing was ambiguous, he was certain that it wouldn't have taken longer than the decade that Ezio had already endured. What would it take for Ezio to find peace, if not the death of every last Templar involved in the plot of his family's death? Perhaps also his mother's renewed health or a rekindled relationship with his former love Cristina—the latter of which was impossible, since she was more or less happily married and would never leave her comfortable life and husband for a whirlwind romance with an assassin who she would almost never see.

Ezio had lost everything: his family, his love, the future he hadn't yet imagined for himself, and all that was left was a perversion of the life of a folk hero. The world saw him as an intimidating vigilante who was there to either save or destroy them all, a reputation that stood prouder and taller than the broken man who had apparently forgotten what it meant to relax. Leonardo, who despite the odds set by his status as a bastard was now leading a successful life, was unwilling to make concessions so that Ezio could be at ease as he waited to correct the mistakes he made six months earlier. He felt dirty, as if all of his prior acts of kindness had been corrupted by his inability to recognize that certain aspects of Ezio's current lifestyle—simple things like eating the foods he liked and being able to go where he pleased—were as luxurious as they were necessary. Was it right to cage a man so used to freedom?

He hadn't been wrong for thinking that something had to change. Concessions—sacrifices—had to be made on both ends. And Leonardo, for the sake of his best friend's happiness, was willing to take the first step.

Those thoughts and the guilt they caused plagued Leonardo as he retrieved the materials he needed to finish the firearm the next morning—so much so that he didn't even realize that he was standing in front of a fish vendor until it was too late and the merchant had asked if he was planning on standing there all day or actually _buying_ something.

"Oh, no no, I—" Leonardo started, but an awful, terrible idea suddenly occurred to him. "Actually, yes. I would like to buy some fish."

* * *

><p>

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Corraggio_ – used as: Cheer up

_Certo_ – of course/certainly

_Un po' di miele_ – a bit of honey

_pollo_ – chicken

_pesce_ – fish

_Non so_ – I don't know

_apprendista_ – apprentice

_Buona mattina _– Good morning

_Ahi_ – an expression of pain, like ow or ouch; can also be used as a "woe is me" kind of thing in more antiquated Italian, though that is not the case here

_Non preoccuparti_ – Don't worry

_arma da fuoco_ – firearm

_Stai ragionevole!_ – Be reasonable!

_Ben tornato_ – Welcome back

**Other notes:**

Holy shit, Venetian cuisine is _not for vegetarians_. Most dishes have fish in them, since it was so prevalent around there. Leo was much more suited to the farmlands of Tuscany, since vegetable soups were all the rage there. Also, I don't know if he would have liked any of the meat suggestions Ettore would have made: in Padua (where Ettore is from), a popular dish is _horse_. (In case you didn't know, Leonardo da Vinci fucking loved horses.) Also, I'm hungry. :I

The pupils Leonardo refers to: Domenico Ghirlando, Francesco Botticini, Pietro Perugino, and Lorenzo di Credi. Botticini will be mentioned in-fic again. The only other trivia worth mentioning (though all of these artists are quite interesting and worth checking out) are that Lorenzo di Credi took over Verrocchio's workshop when the artist died, Domenico Ghirlando may have been master to Michelangelo at some point, and Pietro Perugino was definitely master to Raphael. Combine with that the possible connection between Verrocchio and Donatello (which isn't necessarily historically accurate, but in my fic it's true because I like the idea), and look all of the turtles are connected to each other. I guess that makes Lorenzo Ghiberti, Donatello's master, Splinter. Wakka wakka.

Okay, this always bugged me: Leo should have been there at Uberti's assassination. No, really, he maintained a very good relationship with his _maestro_ even after he stopped studying under Verrocchio, so why _wouldn't_ he have been at the Verrocchio unveiling that day?

Exploring the misconceptions Leo (and therefore Ezio) would have about Altaïr's life was actually rather fun for me, particularly given all the information that came out about _The Secret Crusade_ recently. The Codex relates little of the actual plot of the first AC save for brief references to Al-Mualim's betrayal and Robert de Sable's death, so anyone who read that would have no way of knowing about … well, anything about that game, and how those events would have shaped Altaïr. In fact, it would be easier to assume from the Codex that the major event that impacted Altaïr's life was Adha's death, and that falling in love with Maria was the thing that saved him. It paints a very interesting picture of Altaïr, actually—especially once you add the reference to being betrayed by his father-figure, and separated from his parents when he was younger and wanting to prevent the Order from continuing that practice. He almost seems like a man who is driven by love and/or a need for love, which is actually kind of true on a deeper level (see: the rage he feels every time someone he loves is taken from him), but _definitely_ not how we'd first describe our dear Altaïr. I mean, his coldness and arrogance is present in the Codex—particularly during the philosophical sections, which come off as rather nihilist at times—but it kind of comes across as a side effect of everything he's seen (from the Apple) rather than just who he is. He's also older and wiser and knows that's it's not polite to talk about how he's better than everyone else etc etc, and so what he chooses to explicitly share ends up concealing what _we_ know about his personality. In a way, the slight emphasis on love and the emotions it inspires makes him seem a lot more like Ezio, when you think about it... No wonder Ezio would look up to him so much.


	4. Chapter 4

Wow, I'm sorry for the ENORMOUS DELAY! But HI. I'M WRITING. IT'S HAPPENING. I HOPE YOU'RE STILL READING THIS.

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><p>

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><p><strong>The Verdict of Experience<strong>

IV.

"Ettore, go upstairs," Leonardo said as soon as he entered the _bottega_, shutting the door hastily behind him and clutching a satchel of the goods he had purchased to his chest. His heart raced out of fear and shame, and perhaps the tiniest bit of exhilaration, to the point where he wondered if it would stop outright under all that pressure.

"_Maestro_?" Ettore asked. He rose from his seat and watched in confusion as the artist walked through the _bottega_ towards the back of building. "Are you well? _Che cosa si succede_?"

"Nothing is going on," Leonardo instinctively responded, placing the satchel on a table and starting to rifle through the contents. Having said that, he reconsidered. "Well, something _is_ going on—but not something you would like," he quickly added, and immediately cursed his loose tongue for voicing the truth. He hadn't wanted to _lie_ to Ettore, but it was for the best that he did; now the boy knew for certain that he was up to something.

Although he could not see it, he could hear Ettore's narrowed eyes by the tone of his next words. "What are you doing?" he asked, but only after a long, skeptical pause.

Leonardo spun to look at his apprentice. "Ettore, just—" He cut himself off, aware of how impatient and irritated he was beginning to sound, and unwilling to subject Ettore to such cruelties. "Please, just ... go upstairs now."

The artist turned back to the table, and as a result didn't see Ettore gather his belongings and storm upstairs—though he certainly heard it. He hated seeing the boy upset, doubly so when he was betraying the promise he had made two days earlier, but this was a necessary evil.

Leonardo retrieved his prize from the satchel: a wrapped _gò_ fish only slightly larger than his hand, freshly caught that morning. The merchant had laughed at him when he had asked for just one of these fish, and the smallest of the lot at that—how did Leonardo expect to enjoy a decent meal with a fish that small? But no, the artist had insisted that he only needed the one, thank you, and dashed away in embarrassment.

The _bottega_ quickly filled with the sharp odor of fish, though it didn't disturb him. Venice had two scents, after all: canal sewage and fish; so while it was strange to smell fish in his home, it wasn't necessarily jarring or nauseating. He was also used to seeing dead fish lying and hanging in marketplace stalls, so _looking_ at the _gò_ wasn't exactly upsetting either... Perhaps he was more used to seeing dead and cooked animals than he had previously imagined, through doing simple things like walking through a marketplace and dining with his friends and patrons.

Somehow, he didn't feel as though he were betraying his beliefs, which was both a relief and slightly horrifying. He should have been upset, felt that he was performing a terrible and cruel act to this innocent marine creature—but he felt fine. Had his vehemence begun to cool with age, and had practicality made him willing to compromise his more extreme beliefs? That must have been it. Besides, it wasn't as if he planned on sharing in the meal. That was something he hadn't done since childhood, when he had no choice and didn't know better. He would never do _that _again.

Leonardo carefully carried the fish into the small kitchen and was immediately faced with a conundrum: he had absolutely no idea how to prepare this meal. He assumed he would have to wash the fish—it would certainly be dirty. And what about the scales? And the … innards? Even _he_ knew that certain parts of the animal were not meant for consumption. He almost wished he had asked the merchant to prepare the fish for him, but he would have been mocked for that as well. Ettore might have known how to do so, but the boy would obviously refuse.

Perhaps if he thought of it as a dissection? On top of humans, he had dissected birds and frogs, and even a cow before without any guilt on his heart. This meal could be a scientific experiment that would end in his best friend enjoying the spoils; a fantastic opportunity to discover the differences in the internal anatomy of fishes and humans.

He went into the small room where he conducted his dissections to retrieve a scalpel for the … procedure. He briefly entertained the idea of preparing the fish in here rather than in the kitchen for the sake of his own comfort, but ultimately decided against it. Even though he was careful to clean after disposing of dissected corpses, he felt it was unsanitary to deal with food in a place of death. Granted, the fish was no more than a corpse itself at this point, but—oh, he didn't want to think of that. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath and returned to the kitchen, scalpel in hand.

The entire procedure went smoothly, in his opinion, though a number of things about the fish's anatomy surprised him, since he had such little experience with the creatures. The first trick had been figuring out where to make the incision, since the _gò_ seemed to have a strange fin on its stomach. But where else would he cut but through the center, as he had with every other creature he had dissected? Down the middle, he decided, and then up along the side that faced up towards him. Just like with humans, if humans were more suited to lying on their sides than their backs.

The next curiosity had been making the incision itself. He had expected to have to use more pressure to cut through the scaly skin and meat and musculature underneath, as with most of his other dissections, but to his surprise it was very thin. He was almost certain he nicked one of the internal organs while doing so, and quickly withdrew his scalpel and tried again with much more care. As for the skin itself, he hadn't been sure of how to remove the scales and opted to leave them there. Ezio would surely be more accustomed to that than him.

The internal organs he found utterly fascinating. Some seemed to correspond to ones that he had seen in humans, like a strangely floppy one that resembled a liver and a frighteningly small heart. Others were completely foreign to him: a pair of red, almost fibrous half-circles protected by skin flaps that almost reminded him of a setting sun; a pinkish mass of an organ that he had accidentally sliced earlier and was now leaking little spheres, which he imagined to be the eggs; and a long, mud-colored organ that Leonardo simply couldn't explain. Each he removed with reverence, a little curious to poke at them further and see what was inside but unable to muster the willpower. He couldn't even bring himself to cut off the head when he was done, as he would imagine a cook might do. The sight of the open, organless fish in front of him was disturbing and he imagined that making it seem less fish-like would help with this discomfort, but he didn't decapitate corpses, and so he would not decapitate this fish.

While he vowed to spend more time studying fish in the future, he finished the dissection—_preparing_ the fish, there was no point in lying to himself—with less confidence than he had felt before. Washing his hands of the blood did little to help.

All that remained was to actually cook the fish, which was a conundrum in and of itself because Leonardo had no idea what actually tasted _good_ with fish. Would peppers suffice? He did so love peppers. He hoped Ezio would love them too.

Once the fish and peppers were cooking on a grate over the fire—which was how he roasted his peppers, so he imagined that fish would cook this way as well—Leonardo grabbed his notebook and a stool from the workshop and sat in front of the fire. He wasn't entirely sure when the fish would be ready, but was terrified of over- or under-cooking the meat. He knew that there was a science to cooking, and he was familiar with it in terms of preparing vegetables and grains, but this was a whole other field of study with which, to be quite honest, he didn't feel the need to be that much more accustomed.

He drew a bird from memory while he waited. He was usually more methodical when he sketched, knowing which breed he wanted to draw before he even let charcoal or ink touch the page, but today he felt no need for precision or planning, improvising as he went. He almost scoffed at himself for being so careless with his art, but there was something oddly liberating about doing something completely out of the ordinary. A week ago he would have said that his life was fairly unique, but perhaps he took certain things for granted. Cooking fish was far from peculiar in the Venetian Lagoon, but it was something he had never attempted, so the act made him feel bold.

Then he smelt it—an acrid smell that reminded him of death. He choked, the back of his throat squeezing painfully at the sudden intrusion of this tainted air. It didn't take long for Leonardo to realize that the smell came from the fish that roasted before him, the flesh beginning to darken and grow crispy from the heat. He stood, taking a step back. He had smelt cooked seafood on the plates of noblemen, fried in oil or sauteed in ink or prepared in any of the numerous Venetian styles, but now that the smell was filling the untainted air of his bottega it was a much different matter. The familiar scents of paints and paper, and even the unpleasant odor of low tide were drowned out by burning flesh.

This was foolish, Leonardo told himself, sitting back down on the little stool by the fire. Surely the smell wasn't that overwhelming—he must have been imagining things. It was just fish, and it was just cooking, right there next to the peppers.

He tried to return to his work, but sketches of birds in flight weren't enough to distract him from the crackles of flame and flesh, and that ever-present smell of burning fish. Occasionally he would glance up to see how it fared, only to glance down immediately afterward at the sight of the fish roasting helplessly on a hot grate. The peppers were nearly done, but the fish was staring at him with beady, lifeless eyes, pleading for the artist to save him. Suddenly, he wished he had decapitated the fish.

Leonardo was reminded of a fire he had once seen in Florence, back when he was still an apprentice to Verrocchio. It had come late in the night when the city was mostly asleep—he suspected that a lit candle had been knocked over. Soon the entire house was ablaze, and the ones next to it catching alight as well. Florence had woken from its sleep to watch in horror as the house was consumed in fire, while people frantically ran to wells and to the Arno to gather water. Leonardo, only fourteen and new to the city, had stood with Verrocchio as the older apprentices had run to help put out the fire; frightened and still somewhat naive, he had been paralyzed by distress. While other boys his age helped, he had merely watched the horrified, burning faces of the people inside of the building as they were roasted alive.

Verrocchio had placed his hands on his newest apprentice's shoulders and murmured words of comfort, to no avail. "I watched Laura Guidotti die," Leonardo had said, his voice hollow and tears streaming down his cheeks. Laura Guidotti had been eleven-years-old with pale brown hair and dark eyes. She had always said hello to him when they crossed paths, and asked to see what the young artist had been drawing. She was almost his friend. "She was nice to me, and I did nothing."

Verrocchio, unusually, had not been able to respond.

Leonardo didn't see Laura Guidotti's face in the fish on the fire, but that same horrified sensation was coming back to him. He was watching. He did nothing. The fish may have died long before Leonardo had brought him back to the _bottega_, but he was still killing it.

Frantically, Leonardo reached out to remove the fish, but in his panic he misaimed, his hand hitting the hot grate and dislodging it from its tiny perch. He yelped in pain, withdrawing his hand, but the damage had already been done: the metallic grate and all it held went crashing into the fire, disturbing the tinder and sending some ashes tumbling from the spot. The fish and peppers landed on the burning wood as if posing to be sketched, draping elegantly over the flames, the fish even coyly hiding the large incision that Leonardo had made to disembowel it. That image changed nothing: the fish was now being consumed by the fire.

Leonardo lost his footing and dropped to his rear, clutching his singed hand while watching the scene in horror. The skin and scales peeled away first, twisting and turning black, revealing the meat underneath—meat that had already been cooking, but now was being licked with treacherous flames, as a surprisingly thick smoke filled the air, choking and blinding him. The fire ate away at the flesh, roasting it simultaneously from within and without. Parts of it turned black and crumbled into ash as others lasted longer. The tail was gone first, then the head—and he saw the eyes melt—and then the open torso, the body disintegrating and leaving only the chalky skeleton, carefully draped over the timber. That, and a smoke that was thick with death.

It wasn't until the smoke cleared the air that his world expanded once more, encompassing more than just the fire and the grate and the charred remains of fish—not even the peppers remained. The little details seemed all too clear to him, from the precarious way some of the pots were stacked to the paint stain on the wall from one disastrous afternoon. He pushed himself up from the floor, wincing as the tender burn on his hand pressed against the ground. Then he turned, willing himself to leave this horrible room and return to the safety of the main workshop, only to find Ettore and Ezio standing in the wide doorway, having been lured downstairs by the smells of cooking or perhaps Leonardo's cry of pain and distress.

Ettore was too shocked to even glare at Ezio, as he had been doing for the past few days; the assassin stood calmly, taking in the scene as if he were surveying his next target. Leonardo wondered how long they had been standing there, but quickly decided that whatever the answer was, it really didn't matter.

"_Maestro_," Ettore started, but the boy seemed uncharacteristically at a loss for words—like Leonardo himself. "What...?"

Leonardo exhaled roughly, trying to laugh and finding himself unable to do so. It was absurd. It was all so absurd. And Ezio was still watching.

"_Venga con me_," Ettore finally said, stepping forward to help Leonardo. "Come into the workshop where there is light and cleaner air and room to breathe."

Leonardo nodded and allowed himself to be led away from the kitchen, past Ezio, and into the main area. Though the air in here was warm and bright, the artist didn't feel any better. He felt ill at ease in a room that was dedicated to creation and innovation, curiosity and research, artistic representations of things both base and beautiful. He had compromised his morals, betrayed a tenet of his own personal creed, to the point where he didn't deserve to be in such a pure environment. He was _tainting_ it, just as the ash and smoke of the _gò_ had tainted his kitchen, his hands, his lungs...

He knew that he should probably feel a bit guilty for ruining Ezio's surprise, but in this moment, he felt the need to be a little more selfish.

"Do you need water?" Ettore said, leading Leonardo to a chair so the artist could sit. "Something sweet to eat? The pears are ripe this morning, you should like them. Oh, _cazzo_, your hand is burnt. I'm sure we have a salve for that..."

"_Grazie_, Ettore, that would be nice," Leonardo responded, his voice surprisingly hoarse. It must have been the smoke.

Ettore offered him a quick, reassuring smile before turning back towards the kitchen. Leonardo saw the quick glare he shot Ezio when man and boy passed each other—apparently Ettore's immediate worry for his master wasn't enough to suppress his anger towards the assassin.

Ezio didn't seem to notice Ettore's glare, or perhaps he didn't care. He approached Leonardo with a genuinely surprised look on his face, one that the artist hadn't seen in a while. "You ... were cooking fish," Ezio stated, apparently too shocked to even make it sound like a question. "Even though you don't eat meat."

"_Sì_," Leonardo responded, nodding as he spoke.

"For _me_?" he pressed.

The artist nodded again. "It certainly wasn't for Ettore or myself."

After a long pause, Ezio smiled—it was wide, genuine, and mixed with so many emotions Leonardo couldn't even _begin_ to identify. "Ha," he said, and the sound was warm and full, a laugh without truly being a laugh. His scar was stretching; it was almost a smile in its own right, and Leonardo was suddenly reminded of the man Ezio should have been, proud and confident and beautiful.

"What's so funny?" Leonardo said, hoping he didn't sound too breathless.

He laughed outright this time, and the artist smiled at the sound. "It's just," Ezio started, sincere and beautiful, "it's too bad about the fish."

Something had been holding Leonardo together. Loyalty to a friendship forged in blood and disaster; an often-buried, less reputable love that he felt for the man in front of him; hope that the situation would improve itself; his generally mild temper; a strong desire to make the most out of what seemed to be a somewhat unfortunate situation... Whatever it was, it shattered.

"Ezio," Leonardo started. He lifted himself from his chair, despite the protests of Ettore, who had just reentered the room. He took a few wobbly but determined steps towards the assassin, watching as the other man's smile slowly began to sink.

_Tell him __**exactly**__ what is on your mind_ was playing in his head again and again, a mantra to guide and focus his anger, just as another, softer voice whispered: _no, wait_.

"I," Leonardo said firmly, that soft voice in his head going mostly ignored, "am _not_ your servant."

Ezio stared back in sudden horror. Oh, _now_ he felt compassion. _Now_ he realized that something was wrong besides the wound to his gut and a hunger for meat and freedom. Now it was too late. "Leonardo," he began to protest, but the artist interrupted him.

"I have told you before that my door is always open, that I would help your quest in whatever way I could—and I have always done so in the name of our friendship," Leonardo said, feeling his rare temper rise and make itself known. In the doorway behind Ezio, Ettore watched in approval. "I told myself that I was willing to compromise something I felt strongly about in your name and for your benefit, but now—" Leonardo stopped himself, his fists clenching in a futile attempt to control his anger, the burn stinging. "Now I see that you don't even _deserve_ such kindness because you're too _selfish_ to recognize it."

"No," Ezio firmly protested, frowning deeply at the accusation. "I _constantly_ risk my life to help others. How is that selfish?"

"Oh, _surely _you don't benefit from being an assassin," Leonardo said venomously. "You benefit neither from the women who throw themselves at your feet, nor from the money you steal from your victims. And do _not_ tell me your motives are pure when every one of your allies could tell you, right now, that you are doing this out of _revenge_ for the murder of your family. Revenge is the most _selfish_ reason to take a life."

The air grew suddenly and impossibly cold as Ezio straightened to full height, stepping forward to loom over Leonardo even though the assassin was really only an inch or so taller. "You will _not_," he warned, gritting his teeth, "say anything about my family." They stood so close that Leonardo could almost feel the other's heartbeat.

"I _won't_," the artist coldly agreed, staring straight into honey eyes that he usually found so mesmerizing, "because your family is a noble and honest one. I simply struggle to remember if you were always this childish, or if this is the man you've become. Your father would be _ashamed_ to see you behave in this manner."

That seemed to leave Ezio speechless, and Leonardo, his mouth set in a grim line, turned his attention towards Ettore. "I am going on a walk. Make sure _he_ doesn't leave." Ezio, clearly aware of who "_he_" referred to, bristled.

"When will you return?" Ettore asked, the satisfied look on his face having been replaced with mild panic some time between the beginning of the argument and now.

"I don't know yet," Leonardo responded, his head pounding wearily as the anger slowly began to dissipate. "Later this afternoon, I suppose."

Leonardo turned to leave, but Ezio quickly reached out and grabbed the artist's left wrist to stop him. The grip was firm to the point of being painful and pressed down on the new burn, a reminder that the assassin could effortlessly break that precious wrist or hand if he so desired. Still, Leonardo wasn't afraid, and met the assassin's gaze with tired resignation.

The fury in Ezio's eyes drained, and suddenly self-conscious, he released the slender wrist so Leonardo could leave.

* * *

><p>The walk to the <em>Palazzo de la Seta<em> was not a long one, but in his frustration Leonardo failed to notice that he was going there until he stood before the glimmering white stone structure, staring at the closed doors before him. He had been too distracted by his turbulent emotions, and of course by the question he kept asking himself: _why_? Why was Ezio so selfish? Why wasn't he behaving like the man Leonardo cared for so dearly? Why didn't he understand how painful and disgusting seeing that roasted fish had been?

And _how_ could Leonardo have been so distracted by beauty to notice what sort of person Ezio _truly_ was?

Spurred on by his frustration, Leonardo brusquely knocked on the door and was greeted, after a moment, by a surprised-looking thief.

"_Maestro _Leonardo," the thief—Ugo, was it?—asked, his head cocking to the side. "Are you—"

Leonardo's didn't give Ugo time to finish his question, brushing past the thief to storm rather unceremoniously into the _palazzo_. The thieves cleared a path for him as he made his way upstairs, obviously unnerved by the sight of the usually docile artist looking so unhinged.

Rosa was sitting in the study with Antonio when Leonardo entered the room, and she was the first of the two thieves to notice the artist's sudden arrival. She abruptly ceased her animated description of the morning's misadventures to quietly quip to Antonio: "See? What did I say?"

Leonardo was perfectly aware of what Rosa would have said, though, roughly stopping about halfway into the room, he didn't care. He would simply have to prove her right. He clenched his fists, the burn flaring with pain and taunting him, and took a long, deep breath.

"Leonardo?" Antonio asked, standing from his seat to greet his guest. "I was not expecting y—"

"He," the artist interrupted, struggling to concisely phrase his tumultuous thoughts, "he is being a _spoiled noble_!"

There was a moment of awkward silence, in which Rosa gestured at Leonardo to silently inform Antonio that she had been right all along _grazie_; Antonio responded with a sharp glare of his own.

"Well," Antonio started, focusing on the artist once more and shifting almost uncomfortably where he stood. "Sit and tell us, then."

Leonardo kindly obliged. He told them of Ezio's thanklessness, thoughtlessness, and selfishness; the way he demanded so much from the artist even when it wasn't an easy thing to provide. He started three days earlier, when Ezio had been grumpy—due to fever, he was considerate enough to explain—through to the assassin's silent demands for meat and vocal demands for the freedom to go outside despite the danger. He was less forgiving by the time he reached the current day's events, explaining how painful it was for him to cook the fish despite his best efforts, and the argument he and Ezio had in the aftermath.

Antonio and Rosa listened carefully; Rosa even had the grace to not offer commentary as Leonardo expertly wove his tale. It was only at the end, during the argument, that they started to wince, and the artist reveled in it.

"Now he is at the _bottega_ with Ettore and I am here," Leonardo concluded. "I feel no desire to return to my home."

"Did saying all of that help at least?" Antonio asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

Leonardo shook his head. "No," he admitted. "It didn't."

Rosa and Antonio exchanged a very brief look, and this time Leonardo was unable to read it. The thieves had silent, gestureless codes for when they wanted to communicate without anyone understanding, and Leonardo was still in the process of deciphering them. Whatever the silent conversation had been, it ended with Rosa closing her eyes and exhaling—a decision or a concession.

"_Allora_, I guess that means I will have to go talk to the _cazzo_," Rosa said, lifting herself out of the chair and stretching slightly. "Someone needs to put him in his place."

"Not _too _hard," Antonio advised inattentively, picking at the skin on his thumb. "He is still healing."

Rosa shrugged, then turned to the artist. "To your credit, Leonardo," she said, crossing her arms and smiling crookedly, "you're a better person than I am. I would have punched him a lot sooner than you did."

"But I didn't punch him," Leonardo corrected, frowning in confusion.

Rosa shrugged again. "Close enough."

"Rosa," Antonio interrupted before Leonardo could ask her to clarify. "_Vai via_. Leave us."

Rosa shot him a look that was somewhere between annoyance and amusement. "_Non dirmi che cosa devo fare_," she stated before turning and making her way out of the room, leaving the thief and the artist by themselves.

"So," Leonardo started, shifting in his seat and trying to hide his sudden discomfort.

"So," Antonio echoed, smiling calmly.

"I suppose you won't want to discuss Archimedes?" Leonardo offered, trying to match the thief's smile. "I've read some fascinating things about how he used mirrors in combat—the combustion described in the texts is highly improbable, but nonetheless interesting."

"Perhaps another day," Antonio said. "Right now we need to talk about what happened between you and Ezio."

"But I already told you," Leonardo said. "And besides, I'd like to discuss Archimedes with you in case there's something we can draw from it for the defense of the _pala_—"

"Leonardo," Antonio said, gently cutting the artist off. Leonardo could tell that Antonio was actually quite frustrated, but, as usual, the thief refused to raise his voice when talking to Leonardo as he did with Rosa and the other thieves. It was considerate, and perhaps a little condescending, but right now the artist was grateful for it. "That is not as important as this."

"My friendships are more important than the safety of the _Gilda dei Ladri_?" Leonardo frowned. "My personal affairs are nothing compared to your lives."

"Perhaps I exaggerated," Antonio amended, wincing guiltily. "Though seeing as you influence the man who is changing the future of _Italia_, I would not underestimate the importance of your relationships."

The idea left something sour in Leonardo's mouth. "It is not _political_."

"No, it is not," Antonio agreed. "I care about you and Ezio, and want to help you understand for both of your sakes. But do not blind yourself to the larger picture. We are fighting a war, and as Ezio's friend you are tangentially involved."

Not for the first time, Leonardo asked himself exactly how much Antonio knew. He watched the thief tighten his left hand, stretching the scar on the ring finger, a scar that he had also seen on Teodora and Paola—and chose not to comment.

"Then tell me," Leonardo said instead, sighing, "what do we need to discuss?"

Antonio smiled, pleased with himself. "I do not disagree with your frustration, _amico mio_, but I think you've blinded yourself to Ezio's perspective."

This made Leonardo's anger flare, sudden and hot and uncomfortable, the energy that had momentarily dipped making itself known once more. "I have done _nothing_ but think of him and his needs these past few days!" he exclaimed, frustrated, nearly leaping from his chair and crossing the room.

"_Lo so, lo so_," Antonio said, holding up his hands. "And you are right, he was being a spoiled noble, but that is because he _is _one."

"And I'm supposed to forgive him for this?" Leonardo asked, spinning to face the thief. "Calling him spoiled doesn't make him less inconsiderate, just as calling myself an artist doesn't make me more _artistic_."

Antonio snorted. "There are some who would disagree with that concept. I know quite a few men who fraudulently style themselves as artists."

"It's not right," Leonardo reasoned, crossing his arms. "It's _unfair_."

"I am not defending his actions and the way he took advantage of your friendship and hospitality," Antonio explained. "That _would_ be unfair. I merely want to remind you of the context."

He paused, waiting to see if the artist would comment; when the silence had dragged on sufficiently, he continued: "You and I do not know what it's like to have privilege: we work for what comforts we can afford. So did Giovanni Auditore, and so would have Ezio. But his life ended abruptly when he was still young and foolish, and though he has matured considerably even since I first met him, there is a part of him that will always be a young, spoiled noble. You know that."

"I know," Leonardo said, lowering his head—how quickly Antonio was disarming his anger. "I knew that boy in Florence. There was something so ... unique and fascinating about him, but the way he carried himself..."

"And still carries himself," Antonio added. "Even as he grows into his role as _l'assassino_, he is still overconfident, selfish, and blind to the feelings of those around him despite his special sight. You _knew_ this, Leonardo; you have since you met him. This is who he has always been, and I suspect who he will always be. He walks into your life, demands your attention, and forces you to stop what you are doing and help him. Then he leaves town to chase a rumor only to abruptly return a month or five months later, and with all the friendship in the world he asks you to do it again."

"But that's not right," Leonardo repeated, walking over to his chair and gripping the back—the burn didn't sting nearly as much, fortunately. Antonio had all too aptly described the way he and Ezio interacted, something that had never bothered him much until the assassin had taken it too far. Now their entire friendship felt cheap, like it was never really a friendship at all—after all, it seemed as though they didn't even know how to talk to each other. Had Ezio just been using him, and had Leonardo blinded himself to the truth out of affection? No, he refused to believe it. "It's not right for anyone to be treated that way."

"I didn't say it was fair," Antonio pointed out. "That is merely the sad reality of our relationship with Ezio, and is something we must tolerate."

Leonardo shook his head, frowning. "Nobles shouldn't be excused simply because of their birth."

"And thieves and bastards shouldn't be punished because of _theirs_." Antonio paused, closing his eyes as if to force down the bile of _that_ particular train of thought. "But I am not asking you to forgive this because of his former class," he continued, "but because this is his personality, and something that you spent years and years tolerating without much complaint. The difference is that now you are being forced to face this not for a day or two, but for an extended period; and even worse, when Ezio is recovering from a terrible injury and is unaware that he is being cruel."

"Do you think he is unaware?" Leonardo asked.

"_Certo_. He would _never_ say anything to hurt you intentionally. Even though he is terrible at expressing it, you mean a lot to him." Antonio smiled crookedly. "He trusts nobody as much as he trusts you, other than his own family. He has said so himself."

Leonardo sighed. Ezio had, of course, never said as much to _him_. "And that means that I need to forgive him for his cruelty, and for every instance of cruelty to come?"

"In his defense," Antonio said, crossing his arms, "I'm pretty certain that insulting Ezio, calling him an embarrassment to his family's good name..."

"He _drove_ me to that point," Leonardo reminded, pushing away from the back of the chair. "I said nothing of the sort before he told me that I shouldn't have burnt the fish." That logic, when he phrased it in that manner, seemed weak, and from the amused look on Antonio's face, the thief agreed. "No, let me clarify—"

"No need, I agree with you. But don't you feel _petty_ now?"

"_Cazzo_, you're manipulating me." And worse, Leonardo realized, it was working.

"Truly? I thought I was showing you the truth." Antonio sniffed, shrugging. "Your words were harsh coming from a friend, but he has probably heard taunts that were just as cruel from guards, from the de'Pazzi..."

"But they were never his friend." Leonardo shook his head, trying to stop the swell of guilt from overtaking him. While tinges of anger still lingered in his blood, he mainly felt ashamed. "I am a fool, Antonio. This not who I am—I don't seek to _hurt _anyone, much less my friends."

"A moment of human error, Leonardo," Antonio said, smiling. "_Non preoccuparti. _It's nothing to be ashamed of. We all are guilty of that same crime."

Leonardo groaned in frustration, moving back to the front of the chair and plopping down miserably. "And _you_. You won't let me be mad at him, and you won't let me be mad at myself."

"Oh, no," Antonio amended, his brows lifting in amusement. "You have every right to tell him when he's being a privileged ass. We all do, and I'm sure Rosa is doing so as we speak." And with a twinkle in his eye, he added: "You shouldn't be afraid of speaking your mind to him. I think you'll find that it's quite cathartic."

* * *

><p>Rosa was the kind of person who, when she gave a conspiratorial wink, was probably safest to avoid. When she winked, it meant that she had just accomplished something, likely on your "behalf," and was giving you a heads up that her incredible plans were coming to fruition. The problem was that Rosa assumed that, with enough pushing, everything would fall into place. She lived in a world of absolute bluntness, and believed that the best way to get what you wanted was to charge directly at it, full speed, with absolutely no apologies.<p>

This usually ended in the destruction of your or someone else's property, unintentionally hurt feelings, or any other hilarious misunderstanding. You could attempt to stop it before it happened, but by the time you got the Wink, it was already too late, so it was best to sit and watch as everything unraveled around you. But as uncomfortable and sometimes humiliating as the aftermath could be, it was hard to resent her when she really did have your best intentions in mind—also because you would never hear the end of it if you criticized her when she was "only trying to help."

Leonardo was graced with one such wink as he returned to the _bottega_ after his long talk with Antonio. She had appeared as if out of thin air from the crowd, nudged him in the side, Winked, and disappeared as quickly as she arrived. Leonardo, who was long since used to her meddling in his affairs—including a disastrous situation involving a courtesan with an unfortunate crush, who now couldn't look at him when he visited Teodora—sighed and prepared himself for even more awkwardness than he was already anticipating. Returning home to apologize was daunting enough, but now that Rosa had intervened, things would likely be a bit trickier. He knew this would be the case, but, as usual with Rosa, it was easier to just let her do what she wanted because her scorn was more dangerous than her help.

It was almost dark when he arrived home. This was partially because of the short winter days, and partially because Antonio had indulged Leonardo's interest in Archimedes after the artist had promised to work things out with Ezio. The discussion had been long and fruitful, and despite Antonio's mistrust for all classical texts, the thief's interest had been piqued by all of the suggestions Leonardo had for the defense of the _palazzo_ should it ever come under siege.

"For all your gentility, you have an uncanny aptitude for warfare," Antonio had joked.

Standing in front of his door, feeling a low fire still pulsing in his veins, Leonardo didn't feel so _gentile_.

In an attempt to delay the inevitable, he sat in the piazza near his bottega for some time, sketching idly. There was a small group of women standing in a corner and talking about the day, and they happened to be nicely framed by the surrounding architecture—it wasn't particularly inspiring, in his opinion, but a nice enough study of the world. Yet he also wasn't close enough to make out the details of their faces, and they moved and shifted too much for him to settle on a good pose.

It was useless, he decided, closing the notebook after a long attempt to sketch this group. He was merely delaying an uncomfortable conversation, and not even in a particularly fruitful way. If he spoke to Ezio now, he could relax again and get some actual _work_ done. The sun had already set and he had wasted enough of his day—besides, he could barely see the page in front of him, and had been struggling to draw for some time now.

The main room of the bottega was illuminated when he opened the door, soft candlelight casting fuzzy shadows on the wall. Things also weren't where Leonardo had left them, which probably meant that Rosa had been looking at his art as usual while she was there. For a woman who claimed to have no appreciation of finer things unless they looked expensive, Rosa had an unnatural fondness for looking at what he created, from the simplest doodle to the most elaborate technical drawing. She had a strange fondness for human expressions most of all, and took delight in seeing the way he portrayed people. When he once asked why she loved those out of everything else, she had shrugged and changed the subject.

He wasn't sure who he had expected to be waiting for him, or if there would even be anyone waiting for him at all. So while seeing Ezio there, sitting at the workbench and staring at the wall, was not entirely surprising, Leonardo still couldn't bring himself to say anything, unsure as he was of what even needed to be said.

"_I'm sorry_," his mind reminded him in Antonio's voice. The artist ignored it.

"You're home," Ezio said, still staring at the wall. Whatever it was that he was looking at, be it a pinned up sketch or merely a stain, he was watching it intently. "Rosa left some time ago—I expected you to be back sooner."

Ezio seemed calmer, Leonardo noticed as he placed his satchel down on his desk, as if speaking to Rosa had been as comforting as it had been humbling. Perhaps the two had been intimate, as he imagined they had before? That was a disconcerting idea. Surely they wouldn't do such a thing in Leonardo's workspace, or with Ettore nearby.

"Were you at the _palazzo_ this entire time?" Ezio asked, finally turning his attention to the artist.

And he was still handsome as ever. It was almost ironic, how Leonardo had forgotten about his friend's beauty amidst all that strife, as if it were something that could change without aging or serious injury. Ezio was attractive whether he smiled or scowled, though it was unfortunate that Leonardo had seen fewer of his smiles in recent years. Ezio more often than not was gritting his teeth in pain or frustration or determination or some other tense emotion, and his smiles seemed to have a tinge of loss. Even when he was behaving selfishly, he didn't seem happy. Perhaps Antonio was right.

It didn't change the deep wound to a once-fluttering heart.

"Leonardo?" Ezio asked, furrowing his brow.

"_Sì, sì_," Leonardo said, snapping himself back into reality. "_Mi scusi_, Ezio, I am just tired."

Ezio frowned. Leonardo found the frown frustrating, and so turned away and paid his attention to his desk. It was a mess—probably Rosa's doing. Or perhaps his own. He could barely remember.

"I ... Rosa told me that you would want to talk," Ezio commented, clearly feeling uncomfortable and trying his hardest to hide it.

Leonardo sighed in exasperation as he retrieved his notebook from his bag. "She did?"

"Yes... Was she lying?" The floorboards creaked as Ezio took a step back, the relief in his voice a little too clear as he added: "Because we can talk later if you don't want to talk now."

"No," Leonardo said, spinning to face the assassin. If Ezio was scared, then he would _not_ escape so easily; besides, perhaps it _was_ important to sort this out immediately, rather than wait for things to fester. "Well, she was lying, but since we're here we may as well discuss how things should proceed from now on."

"_D'accordo_," Ezio said after a long, pregnant pause. His eyes, while dark, betrayed his nervousness and discomfort at the idea of broaching a more emotional subject. If the Templars knew that Ezio Auditore da Firenze could be unmanned by a simple conversation, they could have very easily taken advantage of that.

They took their usual seats: Leonardo at his chair and Ezio in the seat on the other side of the desk. Ordinarily, Leonardo would have pulled out a bottle of wine and showed Ezio his latest work, or the newly translated Codex page; or perhaps they would have just talked amiably. Not so this time, though it _was_ an attempt to ensure that their friendly banter could return.

"It's strange," Ezio commented, settling into the chair, "I have never seen you smile so _little_."

"I am as capable of being displeased as any man," Leonardo pointed out. He realized with some guilt that he felt a little empowered by Ezio's discomfort and by the fact that _he_ was inspiring it. It wasn't exactly vindication so much as it was knowing that he had the control in that moment, that he would lead the conversation instead of the brave and powerful assassin. He was in command. _Him_. Leonardo. The guilt was being overpowered by a sense of pride and strength, something that he couldn't always said he had. "Would you rather I be smiling?"

"_Certo_," Ezio said, as if it were obvious. "You are my friend. I like to see you happy."

That admission was both heartwarming and incredibly frustrating, and Leonardo struggled to decide what he should have been feeling. "You haven't been helping with that, as of late."

"So I have been made aware," Ezio said. "By Rosa. Loudly. For fifteen minutes." He exhaled in annoyance. "Ettore was also very eager to yell at me after you left."

"And did you only realize that _after_ they yelled at you?" the artist pressed. "Or did you have some sense of how selfish you were being before?"

"Leonardo—" Ezio started.

"I merely wish to understand," Leonardo interrupted flatly.

Ezio paused for a moment, and it would have seemed as though he were squirming if he weren't so stoic. "I am not good with emotional matters," the assassin admitted, his voice barely betraying his discomfort. "And so I do not know what to say to you except that I'm sorry. I didn't realize that my behavior was causing you any distress." Ezio's eyes flashed with something indiscernible. "You should have said something. I would have listened."

"Would you?" Leonardo asked with cold honesty. However, sensing the way Ezio closed off, almost hurt at those words, he relented. "You would have." Sighing, he continued: "I _should_ have said something, that much is true. I cannot blame you for failing to understand when I did nothing to explain. My insults went too far, and I am sorry."

Ezio smiled in relief, though not quite as broadly as Leonardo was used to seeing. Despite his anger, the artist still would have liked to see his friend smile, to see their lives return to normal, or a better version of normal.

"Still," Leonardo added, his conversation with Antonio not quite forgotten, "do you deny that you were being a selfish, spoiled noble?"

The smile immediately fell from Ezio's face to be replaced by a look of disbelief. "'A selfish, _spoiled noble_?' That is ... harsh."

"And yet you behaved like one." Leonardo straightened, feeling sufficiently ruffled. "Ordinarily, someone does not pout for a day after being told that it is too dangerous to go outside." He wanted to add that a child would, but he felt that the comparison was too unflattering to be productive. "I have seen such attitudes exhibited by my more ... privileged patrons. The working man cannot afford such luxuries."

"And I _don't_ work?" Ezio asked, clearly offended.

"No," Leonardo said, apologetically, realizing that his words had cut deeper than intended. "_Mi dispiace_, that is not what I—"

"I have done nothing but work and travel and kill and train for the past _ten years_, Leonardo," Ezio interrupted hotly. "I have not known luxury since my family died—even when I am in Monteriggioni, I do not have the time to _procrastinate_ as you do, lounge about like some _spoiled noble_. I do not even remember _how_ to do so."

"Yet you were quick to treat me like a servant," Leonardo argued, opting to ignore the jab at his procrastination—it was _true_, he would give Ezio that. "Maybe you _think _you've forgotten, but you haven't. You never forget your birth."

Ezio gritted his teeth. "No, you don't, which is exactly why I have to live the way I do. And if I unintentionally took advantage of your kindness then I _apologize_, because I want nothing more than to _leave_."

"Cold" was the best word Leonardo could have used to describe how he felt in that moment. Yet the word did little to encompass the sudden, hollow chill that ran through his entire body, though he refused to shiver in response. There was no concise way of describing what it felt like to have someone who meant so much to him seemingly cast aside their friendship with terrifying abruptness. If it hadn't been so dangerous, he would have given Ezio what he wanted: let the assassin escape the _bottega_ and race across the rooftops to somewhere more suitable—the palazzo, he supposed, or perhaps into the arms of one of Teodora's girls. But he cared too much for the assassin's safety.

"How I wish I could let you leave, then," Leonardo responded, unable to hide the sadness in his tone. "Unfortunately, until Carnevale provides the anonymity that will keep you concealed, it is far too dangerous for you to travel through Venezia, particularly in your condition. So until Carnevale, you will have to stay here." He inhaled sharply. "We'll have to find a way for you to not resent that, or me."

"I..." Ezio shut his eyes in frustration. "Leonardo, that is not what I meant."

"Then perhaps we need to learn how to speak to each other, because it's become very clear to me that we've forgotten how to do so." Leonardo stood from his desk. "I tire of this conversation, Ezio. If you'll excuse me, I should like to rest."

"It's early," Ezio pointed out as Leonardo took his notebook from his desk and began walking towards the stairway. After a beat, he added: "You haven't had dinner."

Leonardo stopped in the doorway and looked back at the assassin. "I ate some fruit when I was speaking to Antonio." He _was_ beginning to get hungry, but he could always sneak downstairs later for some bread. Currently, he had no desire to be near Ezio.

Ezio shook his head, standing. "_Non è sufficiente_. Your stomach will have eaten itself by morning."

Leonardo watched perplexedly as Ezio moved into the kitchen and, after a short moment, returned with a bowl, which he presented to the artist. "_Che cos'è_?" Leonardo asked. Rice and unevenly chopped vegetables?

"Dinner," Ezio announced. "I am not much of a cook, unfortunately, and neither is Rosa. It was … her idea to do this. She said that it was the least I could do after everything." He glanced back at the kitchen, a little uncomfortable. "It had to sit in the pot for a while, so ... I hope it's still good."

Leonardo couldn't help but smile—the meal smelled good enough, and coaxed his hunger out of hiding. Assuming the food didn't somehow kill him, he would actually have to _thank _Rosa for a job well done. For once, one of her plans didn't end with him dying of humiliation. "It was very kind of both of you, then," he said, taking the warm bowl from Ezio's hands. He suddenly found it a little difficult to remain mad at the assassin, whose smile in that moment seemed both self-assured and vulnerable. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. "Though if you'll excuse me, Ezio, I still wish to eat upstairs."

"Yes, of course." Ezio said, taking a step back. "_Bene_, I will leave you to it. I ... hope you enjoy your dinner."

Ezio's discomfort was oddly charming. It was strange to see the cocky nobleman knocked off his feet and placed in a relatively unfamiliar situation. Leonardo wondered if this was the Ezio of earlier youth, from before their first introduction, still a little insecure and unable to hide that behind a wall of bravado.

"_Buona notte_, Ezio," Leonardo said quietly, backing into the doorway. His hands enjoyed the warmth of the ceramic; the burn on his palm murmured in protest of the heat, but Leonardo ignored it, distracted as he was by the sight of the assassin standing in the _bottega_, swathed in bandages, bathing in the glow of a single candle, and smiling with uncertain promises.

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><p>

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><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_Che cosa si succede?_ – What's going on?

_Venga con me_ – Come with me

_Vai via_ – roughly: go away

_Non dirmi che cosa devo fare_ – Don't tell me what to do

_Lo so_ – I know

_Certo_ - certainly/of course

_Non preoccuparti_ – Don't worry

_Mi scusi_ – Excuse me

_D'accordo_ – Okay

_Mi dispiace_ – I'm sorry

_Non è sufficiente_ – That's not enough

_Che cos'è?_ – What is it?

**Other notes:**

The _gò_ is the Goby fish, a small fish that lives in the Venetian Lagoon; the specific breed is _Zosterisessor ophiocephalus_, or the Grass Goby. A popular Venetian dish is _rixoto de gò_—_rixoto_, by the way, is the Venetian way of saying _risotto_, woo dialects—which is basically a simple fish and rice dish. Of course, Leo would have absolutely no idea that this dish exists, nor would he even know how to prepare it. Frankly, neither do I, but since I wanted Leo to fumble his way through cooking, I did very limited research. ;D

I did, however, do far too much research on fish anatomy. I had a lot of trouble finding out whether the Grass Goby has a swim bladder, since most Goby species don't... I found one source saying yes, so I'm assuming yes. If that's incorrect, I apologize, there aren't enough texts that discuss the internal anatomy of Gobiidae. 8| Also, the "foreign" organs I'm describing are the gills, the roe (both the ovaries and the eggs inside), and swim bladder.

Archimedes' heat ray was this crazy mirror setup that Archimedes used during the Siege of Syracuse. Basically, he set up mirrors that, when properly angled, would focus intense beams of sunlight onto invading ships and cause them to burst into flames. It's been a subject of debate since the Renaissance, with some people thinking it was really cool and ingenious and others calling it impossible. _Mythbusters_ has since busted it _twice_, saying that the ships would have to stay in place for an extended period (highly improbable) and for the weather conditions to be ideal (a gamble) for combustion to occur, and that flaming arrows would have been a lot easier. Basically, the mirror trick would have just blinded the crew on the ships.

I have no idea what Ezio and Rosa made Leonardo for dinner. I don't think they know either.


	5. Author's Note - Story Back in Progress!

**Long Overdue Author's Note**

So after about two years of real life stress and occasionally revisiting this fic in the hopes of finishing the chapter, I'm finally sitting down, reprioritizing some areas of my life (which basically means more time for writing), and finishing this sucker.

I feel like a huge jerk for making you guys wait so long! Hopefully this fic is just as good now as it was before :)

Reviewing it now, it looks like chapter 5 is just down to revisions, and chapter 6 is mostly done. Ideally, I'd like to finish chapter 6 before posting 5 (and have at least half of a chapter's worth of buffer with each chapter I post until the end), so I'd anticipate an update in the next few weeks, depending on the status of some other projects I'm currently plunking through. No longer than a month for sure!

In the meantime, I went back and tweaked a few things in the previous four chapters—mostly a few tiny tweaks now and there, but I just wanted to make sure things were clean and consistent. I probably left mistakes, haha, but AT LEAST I TRIED.

Happy reading!

-Celestially


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